


Shades of Grey

by Naamah_Beherit



Category: Black Magician Trilogy - Trudi Canavan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Insomnia, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, On Hiatus, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to torture and violence, Self-Discovery, Self-Realisation, anger issues, desensitization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naamah_Beherit/pseuds/Naamah_Beherit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are secrets in everyone's past that should forever remain hidden. And yet when they resurface, the only possible solution is to fight and fix the mistakes that have led to them - even though facing them can reopen wounds that have never healed properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has started as a romance story with the sole purpose to make the relationship between Akkarin and Sonea more believable.
> 
> It is no longer that story.
> 
> Somewhere between its beginning and the point where it is now (at the moment of updating this note, it's chapter 12), its focus had gradually shifted and then changed entirely to deal primarily with Akkarin's trauma and the upcoming invasion. It appears that his relationship with Sonea is a plot hole beyond fixing.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Black Magician Trilogy and all its characters belongs to Trudi Canavan. I just dance in this playground.
> 
> Enjoy!

_I must’ve gone mad_ , she thought, frightened and shocked at the same time. She had done many stupid things in her life, some even dangerous, but none of them had been even remotely as full of potential consequences as the one she did a moment ago.

Why could she not keep her mouth shut? Why did her unhealthy curiosity have to get better of her?

She kept her gaze transfixed on a half-emptied plate, and only heard him putting his fork onto the table. She did not have raise her head to know that he was staring at her, giving her one of those unbearable looks of his. Was he surprised by her courage (or stupidity, as she corrected herself)? Or maybe he was just trying to come up with a convincing lie?

He would not tell her the truth anyway.

“And may I inquire why do you want to know?”

 _I live with a murderer under one roof and I want to know his intentions_ , she thought but did not say it aloud. She was not _that_ suicidal. And yet hiding behind simple curiosity was not better. How could she probably express that she spent every single sleepless night on thinking why the person occupying one of nearby rooms decided to practise the most forbidden of all arts? How could she explain that she wanted to know why the leader of the Magicians’ Guild was killing foreign magicians?

The answer was simple: she could not.

If she tried to turn her incoherent thoughts into statements making at least minimal sense, she would fail miserably. He would just stare at her, calm and composed as always, and she would end up babbling like an idiot. Either way, it would be their longest conversation in a year and half.

So she decided to put on a mask of defiance and hid her fear behind it as if he did not scare her. As if she was not thinking about him as someone even worse than Regin.

“I just do,” she said, trying to make her voice sound firmly with confidence she did not feel. “What’s so weird about that?”

The expression of his face did not change, and probably for the first time she wondered how many secrets he managed to bury under his ice-cold demeanour. Was there even one thing about him she knew for sure?

 _He’s a murderer_ , she told herself once again. It was so easy to judge him, to see things in black and white. She was used to black and white, but since she had joined the Guild she had to deal also with shades of grey that lay between. She did not like it, for there was no way of knowing what to do with the shades of grey until one encountered them. And she felt lost when it happened.

She feared that Akkarin could be placed directly in the middle of grey, and black and white did not apply to him. That meant she would have to change her opinion and maybe – just maybe – admit that she might have been wrong. She hated admitting that she was wrong.

“'What’s so weird'?” he repeated her words with a slight trace of incredulity. “I know well enough the opinion you have of me. No matter what I say, you will not be willing to change that opinion if it does not confirm your thoughts. So what is the point in telling you anything?”

Did he read her surface thoughts or her attitude was just _that_ obvious? Truth be told, their relations could hardly be described as friendly. She was not sure if even a word ‘civil’ applied here. But what was she supposed to behave like, exactly? Be grateful that he took her hostage? That he stripped her off any chance of normal life in the Guild? That he threatened her and her family?

Was she supposed to _like_ him?

“You owe me this,” she said without thinking and regretted it at the same moment those words left her mouth. That was it – how soon was he going to lose his temper?

“I do not owe you anything, girl,” he said in a tone that could freeze the sun. She made a tremendous mental effort and raised her head to look at him. He had a relatively neutral expression on his face, but in his eyes she could see annoyance mixed with a shade of amusement. That amusement infuriated her like nothing else before.

“I’m not a girl!” she yelled, determined not to let him treat her like a child. She was no child, no matter how juvenile her yell sounded.

Something unusual appeared in his gaze and she had to fight the urge of running away from this room. And from him.

“No,” he said in a strange tone. “You are not.”

There was something unspoken that hung in the air and made his gaze even more impossible to bear than usually. She fixed her eyes on the table again.

“You are a disobedient, rude novice which put her nose into place she was not supposed to,” he continued after a while. She shot him a furious glare. How dared he?!

“And you’re a heartless murderer that stops at nothing to gain what he wants!” she shouted, long past caring about potential consequences.

This time it was not a shadow of emotion reflected in his dark eyes. This time his features twisted into a mask of anger. Or barely contained fury. Anyway, into something really, really bad. She swallowed hardly, astonished that her throat was still working.

“You may not be a child, but you behave like one,” he hissed. “And you have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Then tell me,” she insisted, not wanting to make this sound like a pleading it really was. “Tell me why you do this.”

“If there were a person I would like to explain my actions to, it definitely would not be you. You are my novice, not my friend.”

Had she ever thought that his words would hurt her? Given their relations, it should have been impossible. And yet it happened, and it seemed that the impossibility decided to make this day its show time.

“You owe me an explanation,” she insisted despite her hatred and long-harboured fear towards him. He rubbed his forehead with his hand and probably for the first time she noticed dark bags under his eyes. Did he always look so exhausted? Why did she not notice it before?

“You may be excused, Sonea,” he said in a tired tone, suddenly emptied of all its previous anger. That was his way of telling her to ‘get the hell out of here’ and there was probably nothing she could say or do to make him tell her what she wanted to know.

She would never tell him ‘I’m sorry’.

“As you wish, High Lord,” she gave him a bow in which there was no respect. He should have reacted, but did nothing.

And yet she had a feeling that his eyes followed her to the very threshold of the dining room.

* * *

Wine in his glass looked almost like blood in this dim light of the living room, dark and mysterious. Evenings with wine were one of those few moments which could cause an illusion of normal life. What exactly _was_ normal life anyway?

He could not remember.

So many years he spent trying to guard his secrets, so many years that passed hollow and lonely. He had chosen loneliness; truth be told, he had never been much of a social person. He had cut himself from other people out of necessity in order to maintain his image of a distanced and powerful leader focused solely on the Guild’s welfare. No-one had ever tried to look for a person hidden behind this mask. Those few who knew him better were surprisingly easy to lie to.

He was simply acting as if nothing happened.

As if there were no Sachaka in his past.

It had marked him for life – and not only when the black magic was concerned. It had turned him into a bitter caricature of his old self, of that optimistic and far too brave young man. He still could not believe how stupid he had once been.

He supposed that was how it felt to grow up.

There was time when he thought that every possible problem and loophole in his little masquerade could be foreseen and avoided. He would have never included a slum girl in his various plans theoretically covering every situation.

And yet it happened. Now he had to live with the consequences.

Taking her as his novice had been the best possible solution. He could turn a blind eye on her discomfort when safety of the whole Kyralia was at stake. He could live with her thinking about him as ‘a heartless murderer’, or whatever else she called him.

He had to live with many other, worse things.

There were days – not so frequent, but they happened – when he was allowing himself to feel disgust at his actions. It usually took place during those long minutes lost somewhere in the eternity between day and night, when the time stopped and bad memories freed themselves from chains of will. He could not find out how much wine he had to drink to chase those images away. To be honest, he did not want to – most of the time. They had shaped him into the man he was, and he was the sum of his scars, failures and silent successes.

He was no hero.

“Why do you practise black magic?” Sonea asked, but he knew her question from some time now. There was nothing else on her mind when she saw him, talked to him, thought about him. He heard those thoughts as if she wrapped them in words and spoke aloud, he heard them nagging her and begging for attention. No surface reading necessary – they were obvious like the fact that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. He was even surprised that she managed to stay silent so long.

Not that it mattered, though. He did not plan to tell her anything.

He had been considering it briefly after she had seen him killing that slave in his basement. In the end, he had decided against it and kept that decision as firmly as only he could. There were too many possible problems and unfortunate outcomes that could happen if she knew. And, of course, he could not trust her to keep that knowledge to herself.

He did not trust anyone but himself nowadays, and even that was sometimes questionable. Trust was failing among the magicians when the black magic came into sight.

He sighed and reached for the half-emptied bottle of wine, but his hand stopped in the middle of movement when he received a short mental information through his blood gem link. Apparently, the Thieves spotted a slave on the hunt in the city.

Suiting up and leaving the Residence became an unconscious habit – his body was doing it while his mind wandered on the endless plains of his memory. Meeting with his informant took place in a similar way and he went after the Sachakan, hoping that it would not take too long and he would have at least few hours of sleep this night.

His autopilot immediately – and quite violently – shut down when in the person followed by the slave he recognised his novice’s aunt.


	2. Chapter 2

"My lady?"

Something was trying to get her attention from beyond a thick cloud of sleep, someone was calling her patiently as if they had all the time in the world. She never had much time to do what she wanted to.

"My lady, please..."

Sonea woke up slowly, feeling someone's hand patting her gently on the arm. It had never happened before, so what was going on? Why was Rothen...

She sat up, her heartbeat quickening when she realised it was Takan who stood beside her bed and what she hoped to be reality, turned out to be just another dream.

"What are you doing here?" she finally asked, because Akkarin's servant was just standing there without a word.

"The High Lord wants to see you," he said calmly and Sonea glanced at the window. Stars still shimmered in the night sky.

"Now?" she asked doubtfully. "Why?"

"It's important, my lady. Please, just come with me."

Her heart froze in fear, but she did not let it reflect on her face. Takan already knew all too well that she was terrified of Akkarin so there was no point in pretending, but on other hand she wanted to save at least shards of her pride. Before walking down the staircase, Sonea took a deep breath and looked inside her mind to find at least a minimal amount of courage required to deal with her guardian. Unsurprisingly, she found none.

Soft light reigned in that part of the living room she could see from above, and it only made her feel even more uneasy. Akkarin never used so much light when he was there alone. Sometimes she wondered why, maybe he did not want to look at his reflection in the mirror?

"She's here, master," she heard Takan's words and realised that she could not make this moment of inertia last forever. Taking another deep breath she went downstairs and entered the room, not knowing what to expect. Maybe Lorlen or Rothen did something about... their problem and Akkarin caught them before they succeeded. Or maybe...

"Aunt Jonna? What are you—"

And then she saw _him_ , standing by the window, dressed in his ragged clothes – 'work uniform', as she bitterly called them – with a glass of wine in hand. He was cold and composed as always, the exact opposite of her aunt, who was...

Scared, Sonea realised with a pang of terror. She ran to the armchair Jonna was sitting in and clutched her hand desperately. Whatever he wanted to do, whatever he already had, she was not going to let him do it easily.

"Sonea, dear," Jonna murmured and hugged her tightly. "It's all right, everything's all right."

"What have you done to her?" Sonea barked at Akkarin, who did not even show that he acknowledged her presence in the room. "Tell me! Look me in the eye and tell me. You promised me you wouldn't harm my family!"

"Sonea!" Jonna hissed at her, obviously wanting to calm her down, but the girl did not care. If he dared...

"Why do you not ask her?" he said indifferently and turned around to look at her. His clothes smelt of alcohol and slums, and all of a sudden that combination reminded her of childhood. Good old times, relatively safe and happy. Times without him.

She could not even remember what it was like, to feel safe. To be happy.

"What's the point?" she asked in a bitter voice. "I bet you instructed her what to say and—"

"Sonea, stop!" Jonna snapped at her, grabbed her arm and forced the girl to look at her. "Don't. He saved my life."

Sonea blinked a few times. "What?"

"I was coming home from a medic and that... that weird fellow's following me," her aunt said, loosening her grip on the girl's hand. "Didn't notice him till he dragged me into an alley and—anyway, your guardian showed up just in time."

Sonea realised she was staring at the older woman with her mouth wide open. She fell silent for a while, not knowing what to say. She knew Jonna – Akkarin would not be able to make her lie, at least not easily. Of course there were strings he could pull, but Sonea was sure she would have noticed if her aunt was lying. And right now she was not.

Suddenly the floor became much more interesting than his eyes.

"Why did you bring her here?" she asked quietly.

"Sooner or later you would find out about this and probably make some stupid decisions," Akkarin gave out a short, humourless laugh. "Of course you would not believe me if I told you the truth, so I realised there was only one way out of this charade."

Did she ever doubt he knew her well, that would be a reality check. Of course he _knew_ her, of course he was fully aware of things she would do if this were brought to her attention. Truth be told, he was almost _always_ right, as much as she hated to admit it. And it was quite unsettling to know nothing about him while apparently there was no secret about her which slipped his mind.

The floor was still more interesting than his eyes.

"That guy, the murderer with a red jewel," Jonna's quiet words broke a heavy silence that fell amongst them. "There's a word he's gone for some time now. How come he attacked me?"

"That is because it is not the same man," Akkarin said after a moment of consideration. "They behave exactly the same way, so there is an illusion of one man appearing once in a while to do a few ritual murders, and then disappearing again. That is not true. Each one of them is another man... and each one of them dies as quickly as possible after coming to town."

Sonea shivered at the tone of his cold voice. Maybe he _did_ save her aunt's life, but it did not change the fact that he was hunting down and killing Sachakan magicians who were supposedly trying to hunt down and kill _him._ She was sure there was more to this puzzle and without missing pieces she could not even _try_ to understand his reasons.

And it was sure as hell he was not going to tell her. No matter what she did, no matter what she said, she would never know the truth.

A small, more reasonable part of her mind kept telling her that he was right when he told her she was not his friend but his novice, and therefore he was not obliged to tell her anything. That small part kept losing too, because it was not a solution Sonea would accept without a fight.

"How many of them had already appeared?" Jonna asked with a sudden spark in her eye; the spark which told the girl that her aunt realised something important and was not going to let go easily.

"I have lost count after the tenth one," Akkarin answered absent-mindedly, his attention focused on pouring another glass of wine.

"So you're the one," the older woman beamed. He raised his eyebrow in a wordless question. "You're the one who's killing them. Who's saving us."

"You are mistaken, my lady," he said calmly and took a sip of wine. "I am not—"

"Yes, you are," Jonna objected, stood up and approached him. "You're the man who's saving the slum dwellers from those men. You, the High Lord of the Magicians' Guild, the man of such a noble origin... and you actually care about us. Why?"

Sonea wanted to interrupt, explain that although he seemed to care about the poorest, the truth was he tried to protect his own secrets. She would have to explain the black magic as well, but something stopped her before she could even open her mouth. Something on his face, a grimace of feelings she had never seen before.

Pride. And guilt alike. Something so unimaginable when it came down to him.

"I don't care where you live," he finally said. "We're all Kyralians. We're free and it’s all that matters."

Where did freedom come from? That was the last thing Sonea expected to hear.

"So you're killing these people," she said slowly, "because of some kind of national interest?"

He glanced at her, as though he forgot she was in the room. "Believe me when I tell you, that there are things you cannot fully appreciate unless you lose them first."

Jonna took his hand. "No matter what your reasons are, thank you. Thank you for saving my life."

He was quick, Sonea had to admit it, but even he, Akkarin, the true master of being straight-faced in each and every situation, apparently was not able to control himself all the time.

She averted her gaze and could not force herself to look at him again. Not when she saw him like this.

"It was nothing," he said at last. "Now please, let me escort you home."

"I'll be fine," the older woman patted him on the shoulder. "Go get some sleep. And stop drinking, it's middle of a night."

"Aunt Jonna!" Sonea exclaimed, shocked and terrified. It was far too late to tell her aunt what she was and was not allowed to tell the High Lord, but hopefully he would understand her lack of social skills. Or he would just lose what little he had of self-control this night.

"Well, now I know why Sonea is so bossy," Akkarin forced himself to speak carelessly, and she could tell how difficult it was for him. "However, I insist. I do not want my novice to worry more than she already does."

"Alright, if you must..." Jonna rolled her eyes. "Sonea, dear, come to visit us soon. We haven't seen you in ages."

"I will," she promised and embraced her aunt. "Tomorrow."

 _To make sure you came back home safely_. Her unspoken words hung between them, heavy and remorseless, and for a moment she thought she saw a scowl on his face. But maybe it was her mind playing tricks, because the next second the usual indifferent expression appeared on his face again.

And yet she could not forget a broken man she saw underneath his cold and haughty demeanour.

* * *

"No one has ever thanked me before," he said slowly, his eyes transfixed on the ceiling. He did not want to look at the woman lying beside him, afraid that it would cause her to disappear like a dream she truly was. "No one."

"It's hard to thank for something one has no idea about," she murmured, curling up by his side. It felt so real...

As it always and never had been.

"I know," he sighed and forced himself to turned his gaze at her. She looked so peaceful, with closed eyes and soft smile on her lips. Fortunately, the covers hid blood and bruises marking the rest of her body. Why did she always have to look like that day, the very day she had died?

"I know that you know," she said playfully, "but someone has to take care of you. And that means reminding you about unpleasant things as well."

"I think I'm pretty good at this myself, thank you very much."

She raised herself on her elbow to look him in the eyes. He averted his gaze, not only because her current position made her mauled torso visible.

"What you're really good at, is making yourself miserable."

"I'm fine," he growled.

"Yeah, you're just not happy."

"And what do _you_ know about happiness?" he retorted and a pang of guilt stung him a moment later. He knew he should not have been feeling guilty of hurting feelings of a dreamt woman, but damn, his conscience disagreed so strongly.

"Enough to realise that doing things you don't want to anymore is located actually pretty far from the realm of happiness. Tell me, Akkarin, are chains of your social connections and responsibilities _that_ different from being a slave?"

He fell speechless for a while, then got up from the bed and approached the window. How many times had he been thinking about it? How many sleepless nights had he spent trying to come up with a way out of this maze and finding none?

"You have no idea," he finally answered and turned around to look at the empty bed, "how different they are."

"So smile and repeat after me," sounded words that turned his blood into ice, "'I live in the shadow of a death sentence, I'm willing to die for people who hate and fear me, but _I am free_ '."

Ice in his veins melted and became liquid fire.

"Once a slave, always a slave," Dakova chuckled. "Well, the only difference now is that nobody tortures you anymore."

Akkarin looked in his direction. There was a silhouette of someone leaning against the door and he knew all too well those careless mannerisms. There was no shadow of a death sentence at the moment, only the shadow of the past he had buried deep within himself, the shadow he hated, the shadow he dreaded.

The shadow that hunted him and was never going to stop.

"I broke you, my little pet. And you can't change it."

"No," he hissed and reached to his magic. Power filled him and gave him strength. Just like that day when he killed that Sachakan son of a bitch.

"Oh yes."

He gathered everything he could at this moment, drained his source dry. No more of this.

"You're weak, just like your Guild. I can't wait to see it burn—"

" _NO!"_

"And now you're gonna wake up."

* * *

He jolted upright in his bed, his body pulsing with gathered power that wanted release. He sighed heavily and hid his face in hands. He did not have such a vivid nightmare in weeks and thus he happily forgot how bad they could get. And how exactly was he supposed to control himself in his sleep?

How exactly was he supposed to function having three, four hours of sleep every night?

He glanced at the window. Light coming through it had that sick grey tint to it, typical to those empty minutes of dawn lost between night and day. He had made dawn's acquaintance a long time ago and regretted it in unspeakable way. Dawn measured minutes with bottles and memories.

Maybe this time he could go for a walk instead.

Akkarin got up and grabbed his robes. Yes, hot bath and a long, lonely walk were exactly the things he needed. In some way he even liked these moments, when Sonea and Takan were sleeping and he had all of his house to himself. He could allow himself to be tired, to throw away his mask of a fearless leader. Hell, he could even walk to the bathroom shirtless, without worrying that someone would notice his scars.

Maybe he really should take a break... Go somewhere nice, to the seaside for example, spend all day doing absolutely nothing and – one could dream – all night in a deep slumber. Maybe he should tell the Higher Magicians what was going on and let them fight this war...

"Is everything all right?" Sonea's question broke the silence and his train of thought. Cold terror clutched his guts in its fist while he quickly untangled his shirt from the robe and put in on. It was dark here in the corridor, hopefully she did not see anything...

"What are you doing up so early?" he asked as soon as he was able to control his voice. Of all possible bad moments she just _had_ to choose the worst one.

"I heard screams and thought..." she seemed to be lost for a moment. "I don't know what I thought."

_Was I screaming again? Wonderful._

"Have I woken you up? My apologies, I will make sure it does not happen again."

"I wasn't sleeping," she said hurriedly. She was looking at the floor, not at him, and her posture was radiating nervousness. Technically, it was nothing new. Practically, Akkarin had a feeling that something unusual appeared in her attitude. Maybe lack of her open hostility was do deceiving.

"Well, you should have, as I recall you have got an exam tomorrow. Am I right?" he asked carefully, determined to find out what happened to her long-harboured hatred towards him.

Sonea scowled, which made her look a bit more like herself. "Did you _really_ have to remind me?"

"I _am_ your guardian after all," he smiled slightly. "Go back to bed, I will tell Takan to wake you up later than usually."

He headed for the bathroom, thinking about what she could possibly wanted to do or say. There must have been _something_ , she would have never got up just because she heard him screaming.

"I've been thinking and..." she said to his back. "I'm sorry, maybe I... misjudged you."

Akkarin stopped dead in shock. Was she _apologising_? Was it possible he was still sleeping and it was just another part of his nightmare? He would rather believe in the world ending this evening than in hearing those words from her.

"Thank you for saving my aunt," she added when he did not say a word.

"As I already told her: it was nothing," he reminded. "Though such gratitude is quite inspiring, given the fact that you would be delighted to see me dead not so long ago... like, let us say, yesterday?"

Those words came from his mouth much more harshly than he wanted. Albeit he did not think it was necessary to apologise for it. There was no need to treat Sonea like a child – quite the contrary, he was certain she _really_ ought to start behaving like an adult. Just because she was yet to graduate did not mean she was allowed to act like a teenager while being almost twenty years old. And if her family was not going to point this out to her, if Rothen had no intention of doing so either, Akkarin was damn sure he would.

"Did it hurt?"

He clenched his fist around the bathroom door knob. _No, please no..._

"Did what hurt?" he snapped at her, deliberately refusing to look at her. Some part of him did not want to acknowledge her pity.

 _Please, don't let her see my back_.

"Whatever happened to you," her words were getting more and more quiet and sheepish. "To your back. If you want—"

"I do not," he growled and slammed the door behind him. So much for a lonely, quiet morning.

So much for keeping his scars a secret.


	3. Chapter 3

Sonea failed her Alchemy exam miserably.

There was nothing surprising about it, though, as she could not force herself to focus on reactions and catalysts, and other kinds of processes her teacher was asking about. Her mind was constantly wandering around a tangle of horrendous scars marking Akkarin's back. Considering also the fact that she spent previous hours on thinking and brooding, the lowliest mark she had ever received was not a big surprise.

And she did not care.

She had never felt so lost before. For the first time _ever_ , last night she had actually realised that she might have been wrong about him. And whatever the truth was, it would not hurt to apologise... Well, it _might_ , when her pride was concerned, but she had a feeling that it was the right thing to do. However, her hatred towards him objected and after a long inner battle with her consciousness she had finally decided to go and try to at least make things better if not to make them right.

Then she had seen his scars and everything had gone to hell.

She had no idea what could have caused that kind of wounds to anyone, let alone to one of the most powerful magicians of present times. And since Akkarin had not even shown up in the morning, probably because he had known she would start asking questions, she had only one person left to go to. Because, she realised, if there was a moment he ever regretted she was his novice, he was surely regretting it now.

So she took a deep breath, dismissed a thought of classes she was about to skip, and knocked on the Administrator's door.

* * *

"Come in," Lorlen muttered quite inaudibly, for he was focused on a pile of documents which conquered and occupied his desk. He had been trying to deal with the paperwork since early morning—or was it dawn, maybe?—suffering a bitter defeat and with no solution on the horizon. His frustration rising higher and higher, he really hoped to see Osen coming to help him.

Instead of the assistant, he saw Sonea. It was unusual for her to come here, so he put his pen down and regarded her carefully. She looked fine, no exhaustion nor... other certain wounds he dreaded to see, so what brought her to his office?

"Am I interrupting?" she asked, staring at the documents.

"Yes, you are, and truth be told I am quite grateful for this," he said and gave her a warm smile. Despite all the problems she caused, he actually liked the girl. "Please, sit down. What can I do for you?"

She glanced at him, then fixed her gaze on her hands. Lorlen's heart sank; whatever she was going to tell him, he would not like it. At all.

"It's about Ak... the High Lord," she said at last. The Administrator felt his face getting pale. She must have sensed something, because she shook her head. "No, no, nothing's wrong, I mean... I saw something and I don't know what to think about it."

"Go on," he suggested after a while of silence. Did she _always_ have to see something?

"Maybe it's less about him and more about the Healing," Sonea said quietly, as though she still was not sure how to wrap her thoughts in words. "I've been wondering what kind of trauma can leave scars like his. From what I know, it can only happen if a magician's body has no power to heal itself, but even then I can't imagine what could—"

"Wait a second," Lorlen interrupted her as soon as he found himself able to speak again. "What scars? What are you talking about?"

"About the scars on his back," she announced, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It did not change the fact that he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

"Sonea, Akkarin is a _magician_ ," he reminded her. "He has got no scars."

"I know what I saw and believe, it's the worst thing I've ever seen in my life."

Lorlen glanced quickly at his ring and returned his gaze to Sonea. He rarely saw her to be so serious. The question was how long they were going to be able to have this conversation without catching his attention.

There was also another thing – why did she suddenly care? From what he knew, she hated Akkarin and would gladly see him sentenced to death for practising the black magic. What happened then to make her interested in some aspect of his life, the aspect Lorlen apparently had no idea about?

How many things escaped his attention?

"There is nothing I recall," he finally said. "Only a few occasional fights, but you know the Warriors..."

"I grew up in the slums, remember?" Sonea asked with her lips curved in a bitter smile. "I know what fights can do to men. The scars I've seen... they're nothing like that. It's more like someone was trying to beat him to death. Repeatedly."

"And how do you exactly..." Lorlen let his words trail away. What she was saying was _impossible_ , but on the other hand he had to admit that when Akkarin wanted to keep something a secret, there was almost no way of uncovering it.

 _Or_ , he thought with a trace of bitter amusement, _you just have to send a slum girl to find things out._

"By accident," she shrugged. "It was early in the morning, I think he was sure I was sleeping and... it just happened. I've never seen him so furious, not even when he realised I know about the black magic."

The Administrator bit his tongue before he started apologising again. There was no point in dragging back that horrible day and they both knew it. His instincts, however, insisted on asking her forgiveness whenever this issue resurfaced.

"He's always so calm and cold, but today..." Sonea raised her head to meat Lorlen's gaze. "Today he scared the hell out of me."

Akkarin? Furious? That sounded highly improbable, but she seemed to be convinced that something was really wrong with the High Lord. And to his utter amazement, Lorlen was inclined to believe her. As a matter of fact, it might give him an opportunity to do something he should have done a long time ago.

"I will take care of it," he assured her firmly.

* * *

"I should have seen this coming."

Lorlen heard Akkarin's words even before he approached a clearing and a spring whispering constantly in the middle of it. He was not exactly sure where to look for the High Lord when Takan said he had not been home since dawn. Then his feet carried him into the woods to the place he had not visited since graduation.

He did not expect to see Akkarin there.

He was sitting on the ground, leaning against a giant rock and staring idly at the trees in front of him. Lorlen could not read his expression, for it was – as always – like a blank page. All he was able to notice was the High Lord's tiredness, an almost physical being sinking its teeth in his body and mind alike.

"You watch my every step, so there is nothing surprising in me standing here," the Administrator pointed out and approached his old friend. "You could have left."

"The sooner we sort this out, the better," Akkarin sighed heavily. "Then you can go away and leave me alone. I was not granted a quiet morning, so I would like to have at least a quiet afternoon."

"What is this all about?" Lorlen asked and sit beside him on the grass, determined not to give up easily. If necessary, he would follow the High Lord for the rest of the day and bombard him with questions. It probably would not be safe, but it was all he could do. He promised, after all.

"We had an argument, she overreacted," Akkarin shrugged, his voice calm and indifferent. "As she usually does, I might add."

"From what I have heard, it is you who overreacted," the Administrator's brow quirked upwards. "You frightened her."

"Maybe I was a bit too harsh on her, but surely 'frightened' is an overstatement."

"It is not," he said gravely and something strange appeared on the other man's face. Lorlen would not believe that Akkarin did not know that Sonea was afraid of him, but maybe they did not spend enough time together for him to realise how terrorised she really felt.

"I will talk to her," he murmured and rubbed his forehead.

"Good," the Administrator said in a contended voice. "Now—"

" _Now_ is the moment for you to leave."

"No," he objected firmly, what surprised him a little. When was the last time he actually disobeyed the High Lord? He could not even remember.

"'No'?" Akkarin repeated incredulously and looked at him as though he just turned into an unusual form of life. "I think you misunderstood something, my dear _friend_. This conversation is over."

"Because you know what I am going to ask about?" Lorlen realised and took a mental note to apologise to Sonea. She was right – there was something deeply wrong with this matter.

"Because I am not going to talk about it no matter if you ask or not," the other man angrily snapped at him.

"We used to be friends," Lorlen whispered, bewildered. "What happened to us?"

Akkarin did not reply for a while, he was just staring at the water whirling constantly in a nearby pool.

"I think we grew up," he said at last, when the Administrator lost hope for any kind of answer.

"And what happened to _you_?"

"Many bad things," came the High Lord's reply, and a heavy sigh followed it. "Look, Lorlen, I am sorry for I have done to you and I am sure you would like to do something to me in return, but—"

"Do not be ridiculous," he interrupted fiercely. "Why on earth would I want revenge?"

"Because it is one of the most primal needs humans can feel," replied Akkarin. Lorlen shook his head silently at this words.

"That is open for discussion, I guess," he said at last. He had a nagging feeling that further conversation should be pursued in a very gentle way. The fact itself that they actually were talking was a huge success. Any unlucky move and Akkarin would likely retreat to the seclusion of his mind.

"If so, then no one has ever done anything to you," the other man said seriously. "Therefore you are not eligible for this discussion."

"I can relate," Lorlen assured him as firmly as he could, but a maniacal laugh was the response he got.

"No," the High Lord said as soon as he stopped laughing. "No, you cannot."

"Akkarin, please—"

"You know what, Lorlen?" the other man turned around and looked straight into the Administrator's eyes. It was enough to root him in the spot. "I will tell you a story."

* * *

_Once upon a time, a magician met a slave master._

_The magician was young and brave, and as curious as only his youth allowed him to be. He wandered many days and visited many lands, and in the end he ventured into the desert. It was a realm of the slave master, but the magician did not know about it. As days passed, his bravery diminished, hunger and thirst grew stronger and stronger, but his curiosity did not change a bit. Though the magician perceived himself as a wise man, he was just as careless as any other man of his age. Maybe that was why he fell straight into a trap. The slave master was just older and smarter, and far too cunning._

_The magician became a student, while the slave master was an eager teacher. Pain and humiliation were his subjects, whip, knife and fists were his tools. The magician learnt to rise up every single time, until some day the slave master struck and broke him into tiny pieces._

_A wreckage of a human being he became reached a point when he stopped caring about anything. He left the shards of his self behind and buried himself deep within the pile of hopeless dreams and death wishes. But the time came when he heard something, something that appealed to the long-forgotten past of his. So he returned to the graveyard of his careless youth, found the cinder of his heart and picked it up. Filled with the new purpose, the magician embraced his heart like an old friend, but it was lifeless and he was still as broken as before. Therefore he collected what he could and fixed himself as he could. But there was only desert around him, so he rebuilt himself with dust and ash, and a cold wind of dusk. Then he thought of the slave master and set his heart ablaze._

_The magician looked into the mirror of the night sky, regarded his new self and liked what he saw._

_However, his life still did not matter much even in his own eyes. So one day, when an opportunity came, he brokered a deal with the devil. The magician sold his soul and the easiness of his mind in exchange for means to deal with the slave master._

_And the slave master was dying with a smile on his face, because in his death he taught the magician the sweetness of revenge and the delight of taking someone's life away._

_In his death, the slave master shaped the magician into his own image._

_The magician had left home as a stupid child, but came back as a man who had seen and experienced too much. His bargain was a heavy weight, but it was like a feather compared to what he knew._

_For he knew the slave master was not the only one of his kind._

_So he fought, because that was the only thing keeping his heart in flames he needed to go on._

_Because he no longer knew anything else._

* * *

"What do you..."

"If I fail, we are all dead," answered the magician and his voice was like a wind over a desert.


	4. Chapter 4

Surrounded by the comfortable darkness of his living room, Akkarin was sitting in the armchair with his gaze focused on the pile of maps lying on the table. The Higher Magicians left about an hour ago, so he finally could rest and think.

His mind, blank as a paper, was not doing a great job of it. He just could not forget the outcome of an audience he requested earlier that day at the court. Truth be told, it was Lorlen who demanded the audience after their conversation. Akkarin knew he owed his friend as much, no point in denying that – let alone to himself – but revealing the ichani threat to someone else suddenly was not so simple. He was not sure what caused his hesitation – whether it was his past he had to talk about in the process, or maybe the illusion that as long as he dealt with this all by himself, the invasion he dreaded would not happen. As if some kind of spell could be broken by telling people about the ichani, making them more real than when he was acting as a sole vigilante protecting the city.

Maybe he hoped that he would just keep killing the slaves until he died, and this situation would hang in such a limbo forever. After all, everyone deserved some kind of delusions, right?

He reached for the bottle of wine standing on the table, only to find it empty. After a short battle with himself, Akkarin decided not to open a new one. He picked up a few maps instead, glanced at them and put back onto the table, without an effort to sort the pages. He kept hearing Merin’s words, all over again.

_What you are asking for is a revolution and an act of war. We cannot allow that. I am sorry, Akkarin, but there is nothing I can do._

The High Lord could not help but think that the king did not really believe him. Maybe he should have taken his robes off and explained to everyone what a lovely tool a Sachakan whip was and how creatively it could be put to use. Maybe that would be a sufficient proof for Merin to banish a few Sachakan merchants from Imardin, close the borders and prepare for the Ichani.

Lorlen had demanded talking to the Higher Magicians after their failure at the palace. They had turned out to be far more cooperative than the king, though there was not much they could do without his consent. Now, remembering what little they had been able to discuss and plan, Akkarin realised that he was getting closer and closer to the point when he would just do whatever was necessary, even if it meant treason.

He shrugged and a humourless laugh escaped his mouth. After all, was it not what he had been doing for the last eight years? One careless move or word could already cost him his life. Did it really matter whether he added one more burden to his already guilty conscience?

What did he have to lose?

“Nothing,” he said to himself, his voice echoing faintly in the living room. Therefore he created a globe light, reached for a paper and a pen, and made a decision.

Slowly, with a determination of a god of time, the High Lord of the Magicians’ Guild started planning a war.

* * *

To Sonea’s utter amazement, she found Akkarin in the morning right where he had been the previous evening – curled up in the armchair in the living room, wrapped in a blanket and sound asleep. It was a mesmerising picture, to see the High Lord so defenceless and so... normal, she realised after a quick search for an adequate word. His face was relaxed, his long hair loose, and somehow Sonea found this more appealing than his usual self, a mask of indifference and cold calculation.

“Please, don’t wake my master up,” she heard Takan’s quiet voice from the corridor leading to the kitchen. She turned around and saw the Sachakan servant standing at the threshold and looking at her expectantly.

“I wasn’t going to,” she assured him and cast a last glance at Akkarin. Then a pile of papers and maps on the table caught her attention. He never left his work right in the open.

Takan approached her and gave her a bag that smelt of a freshly baked bread.

“Your breakfast, my lady, just like you asked,” he said calmly and clasped his hands behind his back. Sonea knew him for almost two years and still couldn’t read his expression. “Have a good day, my lady.”

“Thanks, Takan,” she gave him a warm smile and left the house, heading for the University. She hoped she would be able to talk to Akkarin last evening, though she was not certain what she wanted to say. Ask about the black magic again, perhaps? Or maybe about that horrid tangle of scars covering his back? Should she inquire about a reason that caused him to kill those Sachakans?

She had never felt so lost before.

Sonea passed a group of magicians, their voices quiet and brows furrowed, and made her way to the classroom. It seemed that more people were having a bad day, not only herself – their teacher, Lord Makin, sat at his desk and was staring incredulously at a piece of parchment in front of him. His unusual behaviour was enough to set the students on edge, as though invisible waves of uncertainty were radiating from him and flooding the classroom, slowly suffocating everyone inside.

“Before we start,” he said quietly when the last late person finally arrived, his voice strained and full of disbelief, “there is something I must read and make sure you acknowledge it.”

He stood up, looked at his chair and sat back again, as if his legs were unable to keep him standing.

“’By the decree of the Higher Magicians of the Guild, following changes are made to the Guild rules. Novices can no longer choose the Alchemy as their specialisation, and therefore are restricted to the Healing and the Warrior Skills. Those who already graduated as Alchemists, are to take an additional Warrios Skills and Healing training twice a year. Further changes will be implemented and publicly announced. Effective immediately, signed by Akkarin the High Lord, Lorlen the Administrator, Lord Balkan, Lady Vinara and Lord Sarrin’.”

As he finished reading, Lord Makin raised his head and looked at the class, despair and lack of understanding visible in his eyes. The students were gaping at him, and Sonea realised she kept looking at each one of them as if to make sure it was just a nightmare she would wake up from. Raw emotions on her classmates’ faces told her that no, it was not a dream or some kind of a bad joke.

“What now?” someone asked, and she knew it was Seno. He planned to become an Alchemist. He would be a great one. “What should we do, Lord Makin?”

“I do not know,” the teacher said desperately. He glanced at his own purple robes and looked back at Seno. “I think we have just become useless.”

The class erupted in a fervent chatter, and although Sonea felt sympathetic to them she could not stop being grateful that her discipline was not getting cancelled in a foreseeable future.

What was the reason for it? Why resign from the most popular discipline? Why on earth did the Higher Magicians agree to that?

She had a feeling a feeling that an explanation was quite easy and she would just have to reach out for it, but her consciousness forbade it. That one last effort somehow frightened her, and for a moment she hated herself for this weakness.

Then she recalled certain things she knew, and realised that sometimes it was better not to know.

* * *

There was a fireplace in the living room of the High Lord’s residence, more an architect’s caprice than a really needed feature of the house, mostly unused because of its inhabitants’ abilities. Sonea lived here for almost two years, but she had never seen the fireplace put to use.

This time, when she came back home, there was fire burning inside it, giving a pleasant warmth and a soft light to the living room. In front of it, in the same armchair in which he had slept the previous night, Akkarin sat with an empty glass in his hand.

Surprised, Sonea noticed that a half-emptied bottle standing on a table did not contain wine, only water.

“Good evening, Sonea,” he said, as he did every day. “Sit down, please, if you have a moment.”

She perched on the edge of the second armchair and glanced at him. The High Lord looked considerably better than he did in a few previous weeks.

“I would like to apologise for my behaviour yesterday,” he said after a while, and she felt it like a punch. Did it really happen? Did he just apologise to her?

She wished she had a diary to preserve this fact.

“I should not have acted the way I did,” he continued without noticing an impression he just made on her. “It will not happen again.”

Sonea sat there, staring at him at a complete loss of words. The High Lord was not a man from whom she would expect an apology. There was something in his eyes, in this unwavering and utterly focused stare, that would rather make you apologising instead of demanding it from him. She knew this look of his, knew it well and feared it for the first moment she saw him. When he looked at someone, his gaze was all-knowing and unreadable. She had never been able to stand it for long.

But now, when their eyes met, she saw only tiredness as though he had no strength to put on the mask of a formidable leader. Those were not the eyes of the respected High Lord, but of a man who had too much to worry about.

She saw a real person behind this gaze.

Sonea had already had a similar impression, that night when he had saved her aunt’s life, and it did not help at all. It was easier to hate an unreachable symbol than a real man. A symbol did not have emotions, dreams or reasons for its decisions. A real man did. Somehow, during those last few days, a coherent image of the High Lord split into an empty title and a man to whom it had been given.

She hesitantly admitted that she might at least try to understand the man behind the title.

“And I’m sorry for asking personal questions,” she finally said. Akkarin frowned slightly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Frankly, she expected some kind of a witty remark, but he just nodded and poured himself another glass of water. She had gotten so used to seeing him with wine that now water seemed strange.

“Well, I guess that makes us even now,” she suggested in a slightly inquiring voice, as if unsure whether to leave it as a statement, or maybe change into question.

“Yes, it does,” the High Lord admitted and smiled at her. It was an _actual_ smile, she realised, not his usual smirk or a cold grin. Just a normal smile, and he suddenly looked like a completely different person. “There is another matter I would like to discuss, though. To be honest, I need your advice.”

Apparently she was mistaken when she thought that his apology was the most unexpected thing he could do.

“My... advice?” she asked in disbelief. He was _the_ High Lord. Why would he possibly need an advice from a novice? “But... what about?”

“I need to know what the Guild should do to make people from the slums less hostile towards us,” he said in a serious voice. “I have got a few ideas, but I lack a necessary perspective.”

Left speechless by his words, Sonea was not sure whether it was reality or just a dream. She had to admit she had had hopes that her presence in the Guild would change something. She had quickly learnt how foolish those hopes had been. However, given how her heart jumped in joy, some overly optimistic and childish part of her soul did not give up on them.

And all because of the person she least expected to care.

“You’re serious,” she said in disbelief. He nodded. “Why?”

“I just... I would like to think that if I do something good for them, they will repay us equally should such a need arise,” answered Akkarin. “I also think that the situation in that part of the city must be improved regardless.”

“Well, you’re the only one then,” Sonea scowled, feeling something unusual. She gave it a closer look and realised that it was gratitude. Whatever the reasons, he was willing to try. It was already more than other magicians did.

“A few Healers discussed the matter. Also, there’s Rothen.”

She flinched, surprised by that sudden remark. They had never talked about her old guardian and she did not realised how much it hurt even now, after almost two years. Maybe the truth was that it never stopped. And, all of a sudden, his words evoked the familiar wave of hatred.

“Which reminds me,” Akkarin spoke again, “that as long as it does not affect your studies, you can visit him any time you want.”

Sonea was suddenly grateful to all gods she did not believe in that she was sitting. The impression that it was just a dream intensified immensely. Surely he would not change his mind now, not after all he had done to make sure they would not expose him. It just did not make sense.

Then she noticed his gaze, calm and unreadable, and it was so real that she knew she was not dreaming.

“I don’t understand,” she stuttered.

“It is simple: the two of you were never a serious threat,” he shrugged as if he was talking about the weather. “You are far from being trustworthy in the eyes of the majority of magicians, and Rothen’s reputation did not exactly improve after he became your guardian. Things have changed with Lorlen on your side, though.”

“And Lorlen...”

“He is on mine now,” said the High Lord and raised his brow. “I thought you would be happy, but apparently I was mistaken.”

She shook her head, though with not enough strength to make it look convincing. “’Never a serious threat’? And you ruined my life just for that?”

Akkarin’s face changed slightly as it became more like his usual mask of indifference. He leant back in his armchair, reached for the glass, then looked at the bottle of water and put it back onto the table.

“And may I ask how exactly I have ruined your life? From what I have noticed, I have improved certain aspects of it,” he said coldly.

Sonea felt a familiar pang of contempt. “Such as?”

“Such as your education,” he snapped. “And perspectives for your future.”

Sonea laughed bitterly. “Yeah, thanks for that. And for no friends.”

A brief grimace of disbelief crossed Akkarin’s face. Then he regained his composure, reached out again and this time poured himself a glass of water, as if he wanted to hold it no matter the content in an attempt to keep up the routine he was used to. Despite herself, Sonea wondered why he was not drinking wine as he always did.

“I must admit I have been thinking about it for some time now,” he finally said. “Have I ever forbidden you to make friends? Have I ever controlled your private life?”

“When I visited my family, you told me to—“

“I told you to ask the permission for going to the city,” he interrupted her. “And that because of the periods of time when it is not safe for magicians to wander on the streets.”

She did not answer to that. As a matter of fact, he was right and she knew it. He had never explicitly told her that she was not allowed to have friends. She just assumed that if she had, he would not hesitate to threaten more people to assure her silence. She did not realise that her assumptions might have been wrong.

A small part of her consciousness wondered what he meant about the safety of the streets, but was thwarted by a growing fury.

“You really think so highly of yourself, do you not?” Akkarin said and laughed briefly. Sonea felt her cheeks getting red. “For your notice, I do not spend an entire day on thinking how to make you miserable. I knew you would keep quiet, so there was no reason to make further restrictions. Everything that happened afterwards, did so because of your own decisions. Grow up and start taking responsibility for them.”

She stood up all of a sudden, anger visible in her moves. “I _am_ grown up!”

Akkarin regarded her from head to toe and smirked. “Of course you are. Now, if you do not mind, I would like to know if you have got any useful advice.”

Sonea clenched her fists so forcefully that her palms began to hurt. “Hospitals,” she almost spat saying that. “We need hospitals. And the Purge to stop. But you’ll do what you want no matter what I say.”

“You would be surprised,” he said quietly, picked up a notebook from the table and started writing. She waited for anything else, but he did not even look at her again. Anger was boiling inside her on the ashes of the short-lived gratitude. She somehow made a step forwards, but another two backwards after that. Her eyes traced a line of his jaw and found out that he was as calm and concentrated as always. She wanted to say something – anything – to prove that sometimes it was not him who had the last word.

“Just like you did with the Alchemists?” she asked quickly, and she had an impression that her brain disengaged from the conversation and let the anger speak on her behalf.

Akkarin finally looked at her and for a brief moment he looked offended. “I do not recall asking you about _that_ ,” he said. “Why should I, anyway, when you behave like a spoilt child?”

Sonea blush deepened, but she once again opened her mouth. She was no child. He had no right...

Not a word escaped her lips.

The High Lord was looking at her a while longer, then nodded and focused his attention back on the notebook. “Do not let me detain you,” he said in a tone that bore a hint of a definitive end to their conversation.

Sonea could not think of a suitable response, but at least her anger burnt out and let the brain to be in control again. She turned around without a word and headed towards the stairs. What was it all about that he _always_ pointed out what he thought about her maturity? Moreover, her fear of endangering people close to her suddenly sounded stupid – especially given what he said so blatantly.

Did she really make herself more miserable than she already had been because of some deranged delusions?

 _You’re not important_ , whispered something in her soul. _You’re just a novice, and you know that._

Sonea gulped and threw her bag onto the floor. If he was right – if she indeed was acting like a child, in which a more stubborn part of her refused to believe – then maybe getting used to that thought, as unpleasant as it was, was to be the first step towards changing something in her life.

Hopefully for better.


	5. Chapter 5

There were certain people Akkarin did not expect to come to visit him. One of them was Merin – because of obvious reasons – and the rest belonged to his family. As any other magician, he had been expected to cut ties to them when he had joined the Guild, and had been as bad at this as everyone else.

Then he had come back from Sachaka as a different man and had realised that the nobility of Imardin had no longer been an appealing life for him.

He often wondered how much one’s perspective could change. How easily priorities could shift. How surprising it was to look into a mirror, see one’s own face and be unable to remember what it was like _before_.

Shortly after his return, in an attempt to live a normal life again, he had joined his family at their home for a dinner. He vaguely remembered that it had been some kind of a holiday, the Liberation Day or the Winter Solstice perhaps, and he had tried so hard to pretend to be interested in whatever had been happening amongst the aristocracy of Imardin.

He had tried to act like a person – to _be_ a person – he had no longer been. It had worked for a while, his skills at deception had already been substantial, but only to the moment when his father had hit a young servant for not being quick enough.

Akkarin had gotten into an argument with the old man that day, the argument that had become quite a big fight, then had left and never visited them again.

He still remembered how his father had looked at that servant – as if it were a tool, not a human being. Dakova had had the same eyes. Seeing them had made Akkarin dream of being able to kill him again.

And now his father was standing on his doorstep.

“Are you not going to invite me inside?” he asked in a calm voice. What a perfect example of a noble he was.

Akkarin could not express how much he wanted to say ‘no’.

“Come in, please,” he said and watched his father entering the Residence. That was certainly one of things he never wanted to see.

“Only you can make this sound so repelling.”

“I have had a good teacher.”

His father grimaced and looked around. He was probably wondering how to express his disapproval of the size of a living room. Akkarin could not recall if he ever experienced anything else from the old man, Frankly, he did not care. No longer. He remembered that he had indeed been trying to impress his father, so long ago that he could not even place it in time. He must have been a very young boy.

For Velarn of the House Velan, the family name meant everything. The family itself was an entirely different matter.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Akkarin asked, determined to act as a generous host. After all, he was indeed good at acting.

“A glass of wine would be good, thank you,” the old man answered and looked around again.

The High Lord cursed himself mentally. Of course, it _had_ to be wine, what else could he possibly ask for?

“I have not got any wine,” he said quietly, hoping his voice was calm. His father raised a brow, involuntarily expressing his disbelief. “I can offer you water or sumi.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” snapped Velarn. “I know tour taste and it is surprisingly good when it comes down to wine. How come you have not got any?”

“I do not drink alcohol anymore.”

 _Four months_ , he thought, ignoring his father’s surprised stare. _Four long months. And I manage._

The first one was the most difficult, and he would not make it on his own. He had went to sleep craving a drink, and thought about it had been the first thing he had experienced after waking up. He had wanted a sip every waking hour, and needed it badly during sleepless nights. He had kept a few bottles concealed, even though he had sworn to Lorlen that he had got rid of them all.

And, somehow, Lorlen had known.

The week that had followed had been one of the worst on Akkarin’s life. He did not remember much of it, only flashes and images of trying to function normally. Lorlen had been there for him, although the High Lord had no idea how the Administrator had managed to shove aside his grudges and doubts. And slowly, one tiny step after another, he had started to climb out of the hole he had dug for himself.

He kept one bottle, though. Only one, hidden in his wardrobe, within his reach should the need arise. That was the bottle saved for a moment of the Ichani’s victory. He would numb himself with it, surrender to them and take his own life with his body full of power, killing in the process as many of those Sachakan bastards as he could.

“Are you telling me—“

“ I am not telling you anything, it is none of your business,” Akkarin interrupted forcefully and sat in the second armchair. “Why are you here?”

Velarn scowled and straightened his legs on front of him. “The King expressed to me his displeasure with tour actions. He said that you were making significant changes to the Guild without his consent.”

“Apparently he did not tell you everything,” said the High Lord after a while of silence. That was his father’s way of discussing things – throwing a sentence into the air and waiting for the other person to decide what to do with it. He was tired of playing this game. “I can hardly blame him, it is difficult enough to run a kingdom even without meddling, self-centred nobles. Which reminds me that you have also got _no_ rights to meddle in the Guild’s business.”

“I, unlike you, am loyal to our King,” the old man scowled again and tried to find a more comfortable position in the armchair. Akkarin did not understand his attempts – those were pretty good chairs. “And to the country. From what I have heard—“

“Ah, so _that_ i _s_ your point,” said the Hight Lord when the realisation hit him. “You do not care about the King or the country, you are just worried about your trades.”

“I might be, but the King’s got quite a wide perspective, which I am sure you are aware of.”

“Not wide enough.”

Velarn’s eyes widened. “By the Eye, it is true, you _are_ trying to—“

“Be quiet,” Akkarin suddenly hissed and looked at the staircase. Soft footsteps were getting louder.

“Is she...?” Velarn’s words ended in a guttural choke, and the High Lord could not help but smile widely as he nodded. Oh, this was going to be _priceless_.

Sonea bowed as soon as she noticed them. Her mannerism had lost some of its former servility, but sometimes she still seemed to lose her confidence in a presence of a noble. With her power and potential, she was bound to become an important figure one day, and Akkarin would give much to be able to see the nobles having to bow to _her_. He was not sure he was going to live long enough, but the prospect of such an entertainment was thrilling.

His father had to be a test subcject for now, then.

“Sonea, please,” he gestured at her to come closer. She obeyed, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I would like you to meet my father, Velarn of family Delvon of the House Velan. Father, as you may have realised by now, this is my novice, Sonea.”

He noticed her rasing her head to glance at the older man, no doubts looking for a resemblance – which, to his displeasure, could not be questioned – but he kept his gaze transfixed on his father. Velarn was bright red, half-sitting and half-standing, as if he could not decide which one to choose. His torment made Akkarin pleased – which he knew would happen – and strangely calm inside.

Velarn never noticed servants – unless they made a mistake – and an idea of a slum dweller was something he could not comprehend. And yet here one was, right in front of him, and he was not able to hit her or to spit at her. He had to at least _pretend_ to be respectful, and even that was too much.

“It is...” he coughed and finally settled for standing up. “It is a pleasure to meet you, novice.”

“Likewise, lord Velarn. I’m sorry for interrupting, though.”

“You are not interrupting anything,” Akkarin assured firmly and caught the old man’s glare. His lips curved into a smirk. “We are just talking. Are we not, father?”

“Yes,” Velarn blurted, trying not to look as Sonea. “Yes, we are. And there is still much to discuss.”

“Of course,” she nodded, as if his remark were directed at her. “High Lord, I’d like to visit my family if that’s all right.”

“By all means, go ahead,” he said. “Just please consider coming back at a reasonable hour.”

She bowed, quickly murmured a farewell that turned into a one word impossible to understand, and hurried outside. Akkarin remained focused on his father, who seemed to be on a brink of a heart attack.

“Remarkable girl, do you not think?” he said in a light tone, as though they were talking about the weather or a recent horse race. “She is going to be one of the most powerful magicians of this century.”

“You... you...” Velarn apparently was not able to finish a sentence. “You are a disgrace.”

“Am I?” Akkarin raised a brow. He was the second most important person in the country. Any other parent would have been proud, but _his_ father had always thought about him as an investment to use when needed. It gave him a lot of frustration when he found out that the investment never allowed himself to be used. “That is something new.”

“First, you become this... _girl’s_ Guardian, then you start changing the Guild after the King refused to listen to your wild ideas. What is next, son? Do you dream of ruling, or is ruining the country enough for you?”

“One hospital,” said the High Lord, and his voice was like steel. “With volunteers as its staff. The slums are _perfect_ to start an epidemic that could spread across the city, and its people have to be taken care of. Are you really so short-sighted to think about it as ‘ruining the country’?”

“The slums are a blight,” the old man growled angrily. “That place should be burnt to the ground. It would be more than enough to know that no epidemic would ever start there.”

“Burn the slums, right. And what about the people?”

“I think I know what you want to hear now,” Velarn looked into his son’s eyes with no remorse. “But you will not hear it. Neither from, nor from any other man I know.”

 _And that’s what you risk your life for_ , whispered a small nagging voice in Akkarin’s mind. _Do you really think they’re worth it?_

He did not like the answer he told himself.

“Is there something more you wish to tell me?” he asked, trying to restrain the urge of starting just another fight with his father.

“King Merin asked me to inform you that there will be consequences if you do not stop trying to ruin our relations with Sachaka. The merchants are already wary and we lose money every day since your... show at the palace. Even my guests keep asking—“

“What guests?” Akkarin interrupted, his blood freezing in his veins. “What are you talking about?”

“My trading partners,” answered Velarn in an annoyed voice. “I am their host whenever they visit Imardin.”

“You trading partners from Sachaka?” asked the High Lord, though a part of him did not want to know the answer.

“Of course. Why are you so surprised? I have always—“

He went on, but Akkarin did not listen. His mind raced, trying to process all the things he could have overlooked. He had focused so much on ways to prevent the Sachakans from entering both the country and the city, but he had forgotten about those who had already been here. Some of them had lived in the city for years, others were newcomers.

And he forgot about them all.

The High Lord stood up and looked expectantly at his father. “I think I will pay your trading partner a visit. You know, to ensure he has got nothing to worry about.”

So much information, so many loose ends, so many possible allies – or enemies. He tried his best not to panic as most of his plans fell down in ruin.

“When do you want to do it?” Velarn asked. “I need to make—“

“Now.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sonea, in her childlike naivety, wanted to believe that people living in the slums would be more reluctant to toss away all the grudges caused by the Purges and their personal situation. She had hoped that it would take longer to placate them, that they would not be so eager to trust the people who perceived the slums as a disease. She had assumed that the bribe would be too obvious to take.

Instead of that, there were queues forming outside the hospital, and she marvelled at how easy it was for the dwells to forget the way they usually felt about the Guild.

“You underestimate how safe people feel now, dear,” said Jonna once Sonea managed to verbalise her feelings. We used to have only medics, and a few of us were able to afford them. Maybe you forgot already, with you living in the Guild and all that, but a hospital where we can get help for free is a big deal for us.”

“I didn’t,” answered the girl, looking at the cup in her hands. “It’s not something you can forget.”

“Then what is it?” her aunt asked, not looking at her. She was preparing a dinner for all of them – the dinner which would be significantly smaller if not for Sonea.

Jonna and Ranel now lived near to the city walls – it was a place that looked considerably better than the rest of the miserable hole of unfulfilled dreams which the slums were – so they were able to earn some money on a more or less regular basis. Jonna claimed it was enough for them and their child, but Sonea stubbornly refused to stop buying ingredients for meals. Her relatives ate enough not to starve, true, but she could not stand that. Not when she could help it.

“It’s just that...” Sonea hesitated for a short while. Jonna looked at her with interest. “Akkarin asked me what to do to make the dwells tolerate the Guild, and I told him about the hospital, but I didn’t think it’d work. But it did, and it feels... wrong.”

Her aunt sighed, stirred the goulash she was cooking for the last time and put a generous amount of it into a bowl she gave to Sonea. “Well, you can be sure we don’t love them,” she said, filling her own bowl. “But it’s nice to have the hospital. It makes life easier. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It’s a carrot on a stick,” Sonea said indignantly, though more out of habit than real conviction. She _knew_ that the hospital was the best thing that happened to the dwells in a long time. “And Akkarin told me that right in the eye. He just wanted something to make you all happy to have a leverage to use if needed.”

“You’re overreacting,” Jonna said dismissively, settling herself in a chair in front of her niece. “He did a good thing, even if he had other reasons than just the will to help us. The effect matters. And in this case, it’s pretty damn good.”

“Why do you keep defending him?” Sonea asked, annoyed and slightly disappointed at the fact that her aunt did not agree with her.

“He’s a good lad,” Jonna shrugged. “A bit troubled and with lots of problems, it seems, but he’s decent. And I never thought there’d be a noble I’d say so about.”

The girl furiously jabbed her food with a wooden spoon, making a mental note to buy metal cutlery for her relatives. Those made of wood never lasted long enough, therefore creating another unnecessary expense. “You don’t know much about him.”

“Then tell me more, because he didn’t give me a reason to dislike him,” her aunt said encouragingly. Sonea bit her tongue to stop herself from letting it all out. She would put her aunt in unnecessary danger because of that, and as much as she wanted to confide in her, Sonea could not – would not – do it. Not to mention the recent shift in her relations with Akkarin – her hatred of him recently subsided, leaving just years-old, tired dislike and mild interest that had developed a few months back. Truth be told, she realised that she started to ignore him, which once had seemed so improbable. She got used to her situation and the High Lord had sort of become a part of it – a part impossible to avoid, but not so frequently encountered after all. She did not fear him so much anymore, so maybe her body attuned itself to constantly high stress levels. Or maybe it just gave up and had no more strength to respond with dread whenever she had to interact with her guardian.

“It’s... you know... the whole picture,” Sonea made an awkward gesture with her spoon. “He’s been my guardian for almost three years now. He didn’t give me a reason to like him.”

“But that’s not his job, is it?” asked Jonna. “He’s supposed to do... what, exactly? Make sure you study hard?”

“That he does, all right,” the girl scowled.

“He told me he’s proud of you,” her aunt said softly, and Sonea almost choked on her meal. “That you do well given the circumstances.”

 _And what else is there?_ , she thought, although not as bitterly as she used to. There was something warm inside her and after a while she realised it was satisfaction that someone noticed her hard work – even if that someone was Akkarin. Of course, she knew that Rothen was proud of her, but he was like a father to her – he would always be proud. The High Lord, on the other hand... well, things were different in his case.

“Did he really say that?” she asked, unable to restrain herself.

“Yes, he did,” Jonna smirked, apparently well aware of hitting a soft spot. “Somewhere between constant asking not to tell anyone about what happened with that Sachakan weirdo.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Why would he threaten me?” her aunt looked at her indignantly. “All he did was ask. Quite a few times, granted, but he only asked.”

Sonea glanced suspiciously at Jonna, but there was no sign that she lied. The girl felt confused, for the image created by her aunt did not correspond with Akkarin she knew. Maybe he behaved differently when with her, she thought. Or maybe who she thought him to be was just an image she put in place of a real person.

Somehow, she never really considered this possibility.

“I think it’d be good if he worked with lady Reesa,” Jonna went on, oblivious to Sonea’s emotional turmoil. “She’d appreciate his support, that’s for sure.”

“Who’s she?” Sonea asked, trying to remember who that woman was and failing to do that. The name did not ring a bell. “Never heard of her.”

“D’you remember Tarnus the merchant?”

“The one who used to give food to the dwells?” the girl asked, unsure if she made a correct assumption.

“That’s him,” Jonna confirmed. “Reesa’s his wife, they got themselves made nobles some time ago. They’re still lowbies from what I’ve heard, though. People say that older families aren’t happy that a simple merchant became one of them. Lady Reesa keeps giving out free food, though, and nobody thought they’d still do that. There’s a word that they gave some money for the hospital as well. They’re good people.”

“I haven’t heard anything about them,” Sonea said, trying to fight the nagging feeling that it all sounded too good to be true. “That’s probably a sign that the Houses won’t accept any new families, especially if they only recently joined the nobility.”

“That’s why your guardian’s support would be good for them,” said her aunt as if she was an expert in this matter.

“And what would they do, eh? ‘Cause Akkarin’s just one aristocrat and he’s not even supposed to meddle in the Houses’ games. And he doesn’t, that’s one thing I’m sure about him.”

“I don’t know,” Jonna admitted in a sad voice. “But maybe our lives would be better if they worked together.”

“I can ask if he knows about lady Reesa’s initiative,” Sonea said tentatively, wondering how this could possibly work. Would he even be interested? From what she knew, his activities in the slums were limited only to tracking down and killing the Sachakans. On the other hand, she had never – not even once – experienced from him what she did from the vast majority of nobles – pity, hostility or simple ignorance.

Well, at least that part of living with him was enjoyable.

Before her aunt could answer, Ranel came inside, holding their daughter in his arms. His face lit up at once at the sight of his niece.

“Sonea, dear,” he greeted her cordially, handing Hania over to Jonna who ran to them as soon as they entered. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” the girl smiled and pointed at the child. “How’s she?

“What did the healers say?” Jonna asked at the same time, looking closely at her daughter as if she could somehow find out what was told about the condition of her child.

“They said she’s getting better,” Ranel said calmly. “She’s strong and healthy, and there’ll be nothing wrong once the fever’s gone.”

“D’you hear that?” Jonna said to Hania. “You’re gonna be fine, sweetie.”

Sonea smiled to herself, seeing how content they all were. She could rarely see this among the magicians, this calm acceptance of what the life gave, and the happiness when it was good. Maybe it was because people from the slums were already so accustomed to losing everything and rebuilding anew whatever they could, and they just learnt to take life for what it was.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll get it,” she offered, for Ranel started eating his late dinner, and Jonna busied herself with Hania. Sonea stood up and crossed the tiny room to open the door. To her utter amazement, there was a woman standing at the threshold, her clothes simple but fine, too good to belong to someone who lived in the slums.

She was a Sachakan.

“Hello,” she said and smiled wildly. The last thing Sonea felt was a sudden power strike which sent her across the room. Then she hit a wall and the world went black.

* * *

Akkarin sat stiffly in the armchair, impatiently tapping his foot. He had happily forgotten how formally everything was conducted in his family’s house. He had asked for this meeting in the heat of the moment and now regretted it painfully. Had he given it more thought, he would have suggested to meet that Sachakan merchant in the High Lord’s Residence on his own terms and in time he deemed right. He would have the leverage of being a host of the meeting, and the comfort of familiar surroundings. Instead, he was forced to be a guest, vulnerable to the possibility of his father’s decision to have this meeting happening as the old man saw fit – probably filled with small talk and empty pleasantries.

A young servant broke the train of his thoughts, bowing next to him and offering a cup of sumi. All without a word – just as his father preferred.

“Thank you,” said the High Lord as he accepted the drink. The girl blushed and smiled weakly before hurrying out of the room. Velarn, on the other hand, gave out a sound that resembled something between a snigger and a huff of indignation.

“You do not thank the servants for doing their job,” he finally said, taking a sip of wine from his glass. Akkarin noticed that the glass was being emptied at quite an impressive speed.

“That is exactly what you shall thank them for,” he answered coldly, although he had long ago promised himself never to get into this argument again.

His father took a deep breath, presumably intending to do exactly that, but stopped himself as another servant announced the arrival of the Sachakan merchant. The High Lord felt a surge of adrenaline and straightened in his armchair. He knew about a few Sachakans living in the city: a couple of merchants, a man who owned a small shop with various types of raka – he had this particular haunted aura around him, and Akkarin had experienced enough terror in his life to recognise a person on the run – and, of course, the Sachakan Ambassador. He checked up on them from time to time, making sure they had no connection with the Ichani, but he had no idea how he could have overlooked this one particular man. He could not fathom how it was even possible not to know about him – after all, his father was a man who found delight in telling everyone about his deals and contacts. Akkarin tried not to be suspicious about it, but failed miserably.

He rose to his feet when the Sachakan entered the room, followed by a slave girl of thin posture and terrified face. Akkarin gritted his teeth so forcefully that muscles of his jaw responded with pain. He felt an overpowering urge to offer to buy the girl on the spot and free her once the meeting was over, but he forced himself not to. There was no point in doing that, mostly because the Sachakan would never agree. And even if he did, the High Lord would be unable to find any decent work for a woman who had no idea how Kyralian society functioned. Also no one would be willing to accept a foreigner as his or her employee, especially given difficult history of Kyralian relations with Sachaka.

He was also honest enough with himself to acknowledge a possibility that the girl might not want to be freed at all. He knew all too well how Sachakan slaves thought – especially when they had been born in slavery.

“Akkarin, let me introduce you Ashaki Marati,” Velarn announced proudly and gave his guest a curtly nod. The Sachakan, on the hand, bowed deeply.

“It is my pleasure to meet you, High Lord,” he said in a heavily accented Kyralian. Akkarin forced his face to form a mask of a soft, civil smile, though inside he felt a hot fury mixed with ice-cold dread. He wanted to grab Marati’s neck and squeeze the life out of him, and at the same time he needed to curl up in a corner and pretend not to be there. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into the skin of his palms. He had to act natural, not drown himself in overwhelming memories of terror and despair.

The High Lord had never realised that so much as meeting a Sachakan of an unknown background and loyalties would cause him such a great deal of distress. Had he known, he would have prepared himself first. He truly hoped that he had gotten better over the years, that he had somehow healed. Apparently, it was not true.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth too much. _Think_ , he said to himself. _Think and try to act natural_. “Forgive me asking for a meeting on such a short notice. My father’s tale about you has been so captivating that I could not wait to meet you.”

“Lord Velarn is too kind,” Marati bowed once again before settling himself in an armchair. If he thought Akkarin’s words overdone, he did not show it. “But I can’t imagine what made you think so about me. I’m merely a simple merchant who’s been lucky enough to find such contacts.”

The servant girl entered the room again, carrying a steaming cup that smelt of raka. She approached Marati – Akkarin was not sure whether she looked repulsed or he was just imagining things – and gave the cup to the slave. Then she bowed and hastily left, casting a glance at the High Lord.

“Lucky indeed,” Velarn beamed at him. Akkarin suddenly felt very sick. He had never seen his father so overjoyed before. “It was I who was lucky, as our cooperation is proving much more fruitful than I have ever dreamt.”

“And what exactly do you specialise in, Ashaki?” asked the High Lord, determined not to let this conversation turn into a contest of accolades.

The Sachakan adjusted himself in the armchair and gestured the slave to give him the cup. A reflection of sunlight somewhere in the region of his waist attracted Akkarin’s attention. He felt a nauseous surge of fright as he realised what it must have been.

A small voice at the back of his head kept telling him to just kill the Sachakan and be done here.

“Various types of raka have always been my speciality,” said Marati, oblivious to Akkarin’s inner turmoil. “However, you Kyralians has grown rather fond of some recently discovered herbs. They’re my ain interest now.”

Velarn started talking about how wonderful the herbs were, but Akkarin stopped listening to him. He surveyed the slave who was like a sculpture now, not moving, not saying anything, seemingly not even breathing. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, discomfort radiating from her whole body. She wore a shirt with long sleeves, but the High Lord was certain that he would see a maze of scars on her arms. An Ashaki would not have kept a slave which was not a source of power for him – especially the Ashaki who brought his dagger even to a meeting like this one.

To make things even worse, Akkarin could not help but notice the number of rings on Marati’s fingers. His mind kept wondering which – if any – on them contained a blood gem, but he was not skilled enough to tell the difference between the blood gems and real jewels. He wanted to smash them all just to be sure, for the possibility of someone watching and listening to this meeting was driving him crazy. Marati himself, casting occasional glances at his host’s son, was not improving the atmosphere.

“Excuse me,” the High Lord murmured after a while, realising that he had completely lost track of the conversation. His mind apparently was not working properly, and much as he wanted to change this, half of his brain occupied itself with fear, while the other was making efforts to resist the urge to kill this Sachakan.

Therefore Akkarin got up to his feet and left the room only to lean against the wall a few metres away from the door. He closed his eyes and tried to understand what was happening to him. He had never felt like this before, certainly not when he had to deal with the slaves sent to the city. He had never feared _them_ , so why did he feel so distressed now? His body was full of adrenaline, ready to fight if necessary, and his head felt as though it was on fire, his senses acutely registering everything around him. He was self-aware enough not to deny that he was afraid, but at the same time he was keen to admit that there was nothing to be afraid of.

Maybe it was the dagger, he though as he started walking. Maybe because of it Marati reminded him of Dakova and the rest of the Ichani. Maybe the truth was that under all of Akkarin’s well concealed fury and determination lay a strong feeling of terror which was never to leave him.

Maybe even if all of the Ichani were dead, that terror would remain and haunt him until he died.

Akkarin came to an abrupt halt – and so did his grim thoughts – when he walked straight into the servant girl who had been assigned to serve during the meeting. She jumped backwards and somehow managed not to drop the tray she was holding. The High Lord froze, careful not to do anything that might cause her to lose balance once more.

“I am sorry, I was not looking where I was going,” he said when he was sure that the girl held the tray firmly again. “’Are you all right? I hope I did not—what is that smell?”

The girl hesitated for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether to bow or to answer first. In the end, she opted for a bow, still managing to keep the tray steady. “High Lord, it’s the tea your father requested.”

“May I?” he asked, reaching for the cup. The girl nodded, but he noticed uneasiness in her eyes. She was probably afraid she had done something wrong. Akkarin bit his tongue before he started explaining that she had nothing to worry about, and looked at the liquid in the cup. It was deep red and its smell reminded him of something he could not quite remember.

“Can you show me the plant it was prepared from?” he asked.

“But...” she mumbled with hesitation. “Lord Velarn...”

“I will explain everything to him, do not worry,” the High Lord reassured her. The girl finally nodded and hurried back to the kitchen. He followed her, trying to recall where he had encountered that smell before, but his mind was blank. It only caused him to curse his forgetfulness, because the aroma seemed strangely familiar. Why then was he unable to connect the smell to the place and time he had experienced it in the past?

When he entered the kitchen, cooks and servants abruptly stopped chatting and busied themselves with whatever they could think of doing at the moment, which resulted in a great deal of chaos, and made Akkarin feel uneasy and completely out of place.

“Here, High Lord,” the girl showed him a steaming teapot and a jar full of dried leaves. He took it and closely examined its contents near a dimmed window. Memories immediately clicked inside his head and although he craved to be wrong, the overwhelming aroma surrounding the jar did not seem change just because he wished it to.

“Let me guess,” he said through gritted teeth. “Are these the famous herbs the Sachakan sold to my father?”

“Yes, High Lord,” the girl said in a hushed voice. The rest of the staff was watching them with curiosity, pretending they were not doing that and therefore making themselves even more obvious.

Akkarin swallowed a curse and loosened his grip on the jar, afraid that he might break it. “Get rid of it,” he said, pointing at the teapot. “As for the leaves, have them sent to the Guild, I will dispose of them.”

“But...” the girl stuttered. “Lord Velarn... and lady Marina... they’ll be angry if they don’t get their drinks.”

“See to what I asked you to do,” he growled, realising that he was on the verge of losing his temper, and handed the jar over. The girl bowed and ran out of the kitchen. The High Lord left it right after her and headed to the living room. Lingering terror he had been feeling today subsided, pushed aside by boiling fury and stunned disbelief. How could his father be so stupid and short-sighted? Where the hell had vigilance he was famous for gone to?

Akkarin stopped for a moment just outside the living room to listen to what was happening inside. His father was still talking amiably to Marati, who kept responding with a sentence or two from time to time. This overly friendly manner Velarn exhibited when the Sachakan was concerned should have been the first warning sign, but the High Lord missed it somehow.

He was starting to overlook things, and it was certainly not a good sign.

He took a deep breath and entered the room, causing the conversation to stop in mid-sentence.

“Have you seen a servant by any chance?” asked Velarn, his usual disappointment at everything and everyone sounding in his voice. “She was supposed to bring me—“

“A little bit of herbal tea, perhaps?” Akkarin cut in. “Deep red, wonderful smell? Well, you are not getting _that_ anymore.”

Velarn blinked incredulously, speechless, while Marati shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Akkarin realised that he would not hesitate to strike if the Sachakan made a sudden move.

The question was which one of them had more power at the moment.

“Explain yourself, son,” Velarn demanded sternly, as though Akkarin was still a four-year old boy who tried to mount one of the family’s horses.

“These ‘herbs’ of his,” the High Lord said venomously, “are not even herbs. It is a highly addictive plant. A wonderful painkiller, but a narcotic nevertheless. And he,” a finger aimed at Marati cause him to twitch and try to sink into the armchair, “he is no Ashaki. This plant is illegal in Sachaka and the Ashaki are forbidden to trade it.”

Velarn opened his mouth and closed it immediately, no sound coming from him. Akkarin could only imagine what was going on inside his head, but he could bet that denial had a big part in this. He knew the feeling of being addicted to something and trying to pretend that he was not.

Dying man’s wish, the slaves had called the plant. He had been treated with it after a particularly unsuccessful attempt to escape Dakova’s camp. Dakova had gotten quite inventive that day – the High Lord suspected that it was the day when the nerves on his back had been damaged beyond healing. Once it had been all over and the other slaves had made sure he had not bled to death, they had given him a drink brewed of the dying man’s wish.

He had drunk it only three times, but it had been enough to make him unwilling to give it up. He could not imagine what it must have been like to be truly addicted to this plant.

“This cannot be true,” Velarn objected fiercely. “I feel fine!”

“That is the point,” the High Lord laughed bitterly, keeping an unwavering gaze on Marati. “I am sure feel happy. Life must feel great and suddenly there are far less worries than not so long ago. Tell me, father, when was the last time you were happy?”

This seemed to render Velarn speechless. He sat motionless for a long while, then looked menacingly at Marati. “Explain,” he hissed. “I assume you would object by now if it was not true.”

“Lord Velarn, I assure you..” the Sachakan clasped his hands in front of him, but the gesture seemed empty. His rings reflected the light, and Akkarin had to restrain himself from jumping forwards and tearing them all off Marati’s fingers.

Frankly, the High Lord did not feel satisfied that his hunch proved to be true. He felt just tired. Maybe he was getting too old for dealing with the Ichani threat all by himself. If he was tired, he would get sloppy, he was well aware of that, and sloppiness would do no good. As a matter of fact, it could kill him, but it was quite an appealing scenario – especially compared with the alternatives.

“Whose idea was this charade?” he asked Marati, before Velarn could start his own accusations. Those could wait, for Akkarin had a nagging feeling that something was still horribly wrong. “Because it was not yours, that is for sure. You do not seem smart enough. I want _names_ , Marati.”

“Names won’t give you much,” Marati mustered enough courage to smirk. Akkarin had completely no idea how he managed to restrain himself from strangling the Sachakana right on the spot. It seemed to be beyond simple self-control.

“You do realise I _will_ make you talk, do you not?”

“I don’t, really,” the Sachakan chuckled, his demeanour of a simple-minded merchant gradually fading away. “A piece of filth like you isn’t able to do much.”

The High Lord forced himself to ignore red fog of fury clouding his mind, though it had successfully chased the fear away. He had to take care of this Sachakan son of a bitch, but there was too much collateral damage that might occur if things went sideways.

But he _needed_ to kill him so badly that it actually hurt. It was the first thing he _really_ wanted to do for a long time.

Was that his breaking point? Could he truly feel anything only when he thought his life was threatened? Were his crippled emotions able to reawaken solely when he faced an Ichani?

For the first time ever, Akkarin was able to get a grasp of how broken he really was.

“Get up,” he growled at Marati, who was watching him intently. “I am taking you to the King.”

“Are you, now?”

Before the HIgh Lord could answer, he heard a faint mental voice calling out his name. He could not recognise the person who did it.

— _Come again?_ , he sent in response.

— _Akkarin!_ , the voice was stronger this time, and he was able to identify it as Sonea’s.

— _Yes, Sonea, I can hear you now. What’s wrong?_ he asked. It was the very first time she spoke to him mentally. He wanted to believe that everything was all right, and that she merely found a reason to call him. It proved to be far too difficult.

— _I need to speak with you back at the Guild._

 _—Sonea, I am busy right now,_ he replied, annoyed. Marati kept smiling – he undoubtedly was listening to this mental conversation. Akkarin could not think of a reason that could cause such a broad grin, but he would gladly wipe it off the Sachakan’s face.

— _Oh,_ another voice chimed in. It was distinctively female and bore a strong Sachakan accent. The High Lord’s blood turned to ice. – _But I think you should find a little while._

 _—Who the fuck are you?_ he growled, losing last remnants of his self-control and being well aware of that.

— _There’s no need to be rude,_ she chuckled. – _I’m merely a person who’s got your novice. And, as I believe, you’ve got my husband, I suppose that there’s a need for us to meet. Don’t you think?_

— _If you hurt her, I will kill you,_ Akkarin’s mental voice sounded like steel. He was long past caring about the possibility of other magicians overhearing this. He did not care about his reputation, excuses he would eventually have to make and explanations that would be needed. There was an Ichani on the loose that had to be stopped, and it was all that mattered.

— _Oh,_ that _I already did,_ the woman laughed, and it was the moment Akkarin decided that he would not take her alive for questioning. He was just going to kill her. No mercy and no second chances. – _The question is: how quickly can you return to your precious Guild before I hurt her more?_


	7. Chapter 7

The world was a blur of colours, twirling and ever-changing. Sounds were muffled and impossible to recognise because of the ringing in her ears, a horrible sensation that made her feel as if her head was about to split in two. A part of her mind registered the fact that she seemed to be moving towards an unknown destination, but she could not comprehend how it was even possible – especially when she could not even feel her legs. Everything felt... strange, disengaged from reality as though the whole universe had been broken and discarded aside to wither.

She was crying. Why was she crying?

“Not... far” came the words from somewhere around her. They did not make any sense. Nothing did.

And she was still crying, as if the world ended.

But if it did, then why could she still walk?

* * *

— _Lorlen!_ Akkarin yelled mentally, forcing himself to divide his attention between riding a horse, trying to prevent the barely conscious Sachakan from falling off the animal’s back, and keeping his own fear in check. Dread crawled freely across his chest and occasionally clawed at his heart, causing Akkarin’s mind to dwell in images of every possible outcome and fallout from this whole mess. He did not like any of it.

The horse swayed on the cobblestones of the street during a particularly sharp turn, and Akkarin cursed loudly, trying to keep both the Sachakan and himself in the saddle. He was really terrible at multitasking, always had been.

— _Akkarin?_ Lorlen finally answered, not quickly enough for Akkarin to like it. Any second of delay, and his imagination busied itself with concepts of what might have caused the lack of immediate response. — _What—_

— _Put on the ring._

The background noise typical for mental conversations vanished moments later, replaced with comforting silence of two minds excluded from the surroundings.

— _What is going on?_ Lorlen asked. — _There is a commotion at the gates, but I cannot exactly see—_

— _Evacuate the students and the staff_ , Akkarin did not let him finish. He tried to hasten the horse, but the animal simply could not run any faster. — _Preferably through the cemetary._

— _Akkarin, who was—_

— _What do you think?_ Akkarin retorted. With everything he had told Lorlen, was it really so difficult to connect the facts? The High Lord briefly considered that maybe it was only him who saw the obvious so clearly, mostly because of his own history with the Ichani. It was also possible that living in constant fear of invasion made him indifferent to it when something was finally put in motion.

— _Tell Balkan to choose ten of his best Warriors and wait for me at the gates_ , he told Lorlen and then forced his mind to jump to another connection that permanently lay at the back of his head. — _Takan?_

— _Master_ , came an immediate response. Now that was what Akkarin liked.

— _Meet me at the main gate_ , he instructed. — _Bring the dagger_.

There was a moment of silence, and then, — _Yes, master_.

Akkarin was not entirely convinced that his servant’s voice lacked fear. To be honest, he did not blame him. Takan was a slave longer than he was, and the High Lord still wanted to curl in a dark corner and wait there until it was safe to come out.

— _If something goes wrong, prepare yourself for lots of running and a prolonged period of hiding once the running has ended_ , he suggested and closed his mind from both Lorlen and Takan. He did not need distractions right now, not when his nerves were so strained. His whole body felt as if on fire, and he had experienced that feeling only once in his life before this moment. He would be exhausted if he survived, he knew that. And maybe it was a good thing, he realised. Maybe he would finally get a good night’s sleep.

It did not even have to be a whole night. A few hours would do.

When first of the Guild’s buildings appeared in the distance, Akkarin acknowledged – with no small amount of resignation, to be honest – that he would finally have to let other magicians know that he was adept at the black magic. He had had plans how to do it, in what circumstances and when. He had wanted it to be the last link in the chain of information and knowledge he had been sharing with the Higher Magicians in the last few months. He had intended them to be aware of the context, and that awareness was supposed to make them acknowledge the black magic as the true last resort it really was.

Admittedly, he had wanted to play it in the way that would save his life from a stubborn denial he was certain to face.

He did not delude himself that they would be thrilled to let go of the fact of his knowledge. What he wanted was them to decide they would not sentence his to death during a quick, field trial. Not that he would accept that, of course, but if he were forced to escape, it would make everything a lot more difficult.

His thoughts once again wandered in the unwanted direction of Sonea, but Akkarin did not allow himself to dwell on that matter. It was futile to do so; thoughts like those only fed his imagination, and it was something he did not need right now. He had to focus solely on the Ichani, everything else had to wait. Splitting his attention between two subjects could cost him his life, and that would serve no one. He was not overly fond of his life, he did not hesitate to admit it, but at the same time he was from being willing to die.

Balkan and Lorlen were waiting for him, just like ten Warriors serious faces and stern looks. Akkarin did not know their names, never even thought about it. Knowing every single magician by name was never on his agenda. He usually preferred to stay away from the Guild’s social life, mostly because it lacked any appeal to him. Surprisingly enough, a prospect of fighting alongside people he did not even know turned out to be unnerving. All of a sudden, he felt a pang of nostalgia after the years when gossip and other people had been of any interest to him.

“High Lord,” Balkan bowed deeply, while Lorlen gave only a slight nod of his head. Akkarin knew that his old friend – could he still even call him that? – was exceptionally nervous; his whole bodu was radiating anxiety. “The Administrator has shared with me the details of our current situation. What need do you have of me and my Warriors?”

“What I need is your power if I run out of mine,” the High Lord said, without any intention of making them think they were anything else but support. He did not need any heroics, and a few of the Warriors were young enough to be in danger of deciding to do something stupid and dangerous to them all.

“Very well,” Balkan agreed, but it was obvious that he did not feel particularly happy about it.

“How is the evacuation going?” Akkarin asked, spotting Takan who was hurrying towards them with the dagger wrapped in a cloth. The High Lord jumped off the horse and dragged the Sachakan down without even trying to pretend to be gentle.

“Slowly,” Lorlen winced as though he just chewed on a lemon. “The students turned out to be... extremely disorganised.”

“They do not have to be organised, they just have to follow simple orders,” Akkarin growled furiously, rubbing the palm of his right hand. He just slapped Marati who had difficulties in keeping a standing position. It seemed that the High Lord should not have taken all of the Sachakan’s power after all. “Following orders does not require much of a thought. If they cannot do something simple, then maybe they are unfit for the education we provide.”

“Is this really the time and place for such a conversation?” Balkan asked in an irritated voice. While Akkarin fully agreed with him that maybe it was not the right time to discuss that, he was curious about the reason for his colleague’s annoyance. He knew the Warriors – he had been one, after all – and was fully aware of their weaknesses. Akkarin suspected that maybe – just maybe, but quite probably at the same time – Balkan, for the first time in his life, saw an opportunity to test his skills in a fight infinitely more real and more important than any of his training exercises, and he was denied that possibility almost immediately.

Akkarin briefly considered letting Balkan have his minute of truth – because it would not take more time. He would have hit the woman, then she would have struck back – the first strike to get rid of Balkan’s shield, and the second to send him to the ground, crawling and weeping. The High Lord realised that it would also have been a great shock therapy; probably the best way to show the Higher Magicians that the Ichani could not be defeated without the black magic.

On the other hand, it would prove how miserably weak the Kyralians were compared with the Sachakans. And, as Akkarin was certain that Kariko was watching, making it obvious was not a smart move at this point.

“Let us just hope they will be smart enough to stay out of harm’s way,” the High Lord said in a bitter voice, knowing that he had not been cautious enough in that one, particular moment of his life. “Has anybody seen the woman?”

“She entered through the main gate, killed the guards, and hid somewhere,” Lorlen summarised, his face twisted in a painful scowl. “We... well... removed the bodies while waiting for you.”

Another two good men dead. Akkarin’s blood boiled at the very thought of it. “Did she see you?”

“No, I do not think so,” the Administrator shook his head. The scowl on his face deepened as he watched Akkarin taking the dagger from Takan. The High Lord did not care; he glanced towards the Arena, but it seemed to be intact. It was the first good news today.

“We need to find her,” Akkarin said firmly. _Her and Sonea_ , he finished in his thoughts. “Keep close to me and do what I say.”

He yanked Marati in front of him and slowly ventured into the Guild’s grounds. The Warriors and Lorlen were following him quietly, while Takan lingered behind, watching them with obvious concern. Akkarin was glad that the servant did not decide to join them. He was an easy for the Ichani, and – although their friendship had come instantly, and had been difficult and feeble at the beginning – Akkarin cared for the man with whom she shared more than with anyone else. And as people he cared for usually died in front of his eyes... well, he was glad that Takan was relatively safe at the moment.

It was Balkan who noticed them first and alerted the others. Akkarin’s heart, which was beating frantically in his chest, steadied its rhythm as the High Lord focused only on the women in front of him. They were heading towards them from the direction of the Residence, and judging by the scowl on the Ichani’s face, whatever she was looking for inside was not there. She dragged Sonea behind her; the novice’s eyes were empty of coherent thoughts, and her pale face was covered in dirt and tears. She looked exhausted, and while it should have angered Akkarin, he felt only a pang of fear. Much to his utter disgust of himself, he could think only about the fact that all of Sonea’s considerable reserves of power must have been drained – and he had to fight the person responsible for that.

Just his bad luck.

“Well, there you are, you piece of limek’s shit,” the Ichani said with a wide smile. Her words were so heavily accented that it was difficult to understand her. Akkarin almost wished she spoke Sachakan. “I was beginning to think you ran away.”

“And miss the opportunity to cut your throat?” the Hight Lord said mockingly, ignoring the undignified gasps of disbelief his audience made. “I would never do that.”

“You think you can defeat me?” the woman laughed and pushed Sonea in front of her. “She’s strong, this one. No wonder why you kept her.”

“It does not matter from whom you have taken power,” he shrugged and shoved Marati aside. The Sachakan tripped over his own feet and feel to the ground, where he lay curled like a baby, with equally mindless expression on his face. “You will still lose.”

“We’ll see about that,” she laughed again and let go of her grip on Sonea’s hand. “I’d say you’ll end up crawling in dirt and begging for mercy, just like you did before.”

Akkarin felt fury clouding his mind. It was red. “Tell me, you thrice damned bitch, is Kariko watching?”

“He is _always_ watching,” she huffed, as if the question offended her.

“Good,” the High Lord said and attacked.

He did not dream of defeating her instantly. Instead, he just wanted to test the strength and position of her defences. He remembered well enough that Dakova had had ironclad shield in front of him, and completely nothing behind him. All Akkarin had to do was stay alive long enough to be able to play this skilfully. Which in his current, bloodthirsty state of mind, could be difficult.

So he opted for a game for a while; the game that seemed painfully ordinary for those watching it from the outside. Akkarin knew that they were not aware of burning pain every time he strained his body to conduct more magic than it was supposed to hold, just like they could not imagine the numbness resonating in his bones and spine after each and every blocked strike.

They circled each other for a good couple of minutes, testing and trying, and hoping for this one lucky strike which would end this farce. But no such blow happened on either side, and Akkarin realised that he needed a diversion. He did not consider various scenarios, knowing that there was no time for too much thinking, and decided to go for the first idea that came into his mind. It simply _had_ to suffice.

— _Lorlen,_ he called the other man through the blood gem. It was a good thing that the Administrator did not have time to take the ring off.

— _Akkarin_ , came a frantic response; Lorlen’s thoughts sounded as if he was on the edge of hysteria. — _This does not look good—_

— _When I fall down_ , the High Lord interrupted, not caring at all what the fight looked like, — _tell Balkan to order the attack on her. They need to face her away from me._

There was a moment of hesitation in Lorlen’s thoughts, but soon came a wave of determination. Akkarin was pleasantly surprised that his old friend managed to control his fear, even with full knowledge of Akkarin’s pitiful past and the capabilities of the Ichani. When the Administrator touched Balkan’s arm to relay the message, the High Lord forced his mind to retreat from the connection created by the ring and focused on the task at hand. He had to create additional levels of shield, and pretend to be losing power. Pretending was probably the most difficult thing to do, mostly because his instinct was urging to attack the woman with full strength, crush her bones and make her bleed before she died.

On the other hand, Akkarin mastered pretending during the last couple of years, so this stunt seemed relatively easy to pull. Therefore he waited for a good moment, put his plan in motion, and, as a result of it, curled on the ground in foetal position. He was clutching the dagger in a hand he kept hidden beneath his body, hoping that this would work. Horrified gasps and screams given by the Warriors made him think that maybe he did manage to look exhausted after all. A loud laugh coming from the woman made him certain even more so.

Balkan immediately rushed to do his part, shouting orders at his Warriors and gradually moving in circles to try and find a good spot for engaging the Ichani. In the meantime, Lorlen – which Akkarin noticed with no small amount of satisfaction – moved Sonea’s limp body further away from the battling magicians. The High Lord decided to throw his mind once more into the connection of the blood gem, for he needed to know when the perfect opportunity came. Missing it would mean he failed. He could not allow himself to fail. Neither now nor in the foreseeable future.

And through the Lorlen’s eyes he saw how Balkan fired a powerful strike at the Ichani, and how she responded in kind. Akkarin had been right in his earlier assumptions that all it would take to finish Balkan was two strikes from the woman. The Head of Warriors hit the ground with painful groan, his wide eyes reflecting terror he felt probably for the first time in his life. There he was, one of the most powerful magicians that the Guild had seen in the last fifty years, flat on the ground, defeated by the woman who was young enough to be his daughter.

Two strikes of never-ending shame and humiliation.

And yet Akkarin waited, watching the situation through Lorlen’s eyes. The Ichani approached Balkan slowly, gloating no doubt, and she crouched in front of the fallen Warrior. He tried to move away from her, but he did not have enough strength and merely twitched as she took his hand into hers. She rolled up his sleeve, and ran her palm up and down his arm in a mockingly gentle way. Balkan gulped and made a gurgling noise, as if he tried his best not to vomit. Them the woman grabbed her dagger, and Akkarin decided that he waited long enough. He tightened the grip on his own dagger, got up as quietly as he could, and lunged at the Ichani. He took advantage of this moment of surprise, slashed a cut on the woman’s neck, and put his hand on the wound.

Her body went rigid as soon as he started draining her power faster than he had ever done before. The feeling was overwhelming and unlike anything he had felt during all those years of practising the black magic. His nerves were on fire, his head was light and suddenly empty of thoughts and worries, and – with quite a lot of dread – Akkarin realised that this was infinitely more addictive than alcohol.

He had barely managed to escape one addiction – and he had doubts whether he truly got out at all – and getting another chain was something he definitely did not want.

Akkarin forced himself to take a step back; he wiped his palm clean in a slightly compulsive way, suddenly utterly disgusted with himself. The Ichani went limp and she fell, a seemingly lifeless body with blood on her neck and back. The High Lord fought back the urge of spitting at her. Instead, he balled his hand into a fist and hit her right in the jaw, making sure she was unconscious. One could never be too careful.

“How did you...“ Balkan whimpered and gulped. He rose to his feet, looking ashamed. Was it because of the whimper, or his failure to keep up the fight, Akkarin was not sure. He suspected that both were equally possible. “She was... How?”

“Later,” the High Lord answered and gestured at the Warriors. Some of them were frozen in what seemed to be amazement or shock, and the rest was cheering loudly.

Balkan nodded and stepped away from the woman. He gave her a look of complete resentment which was not at all surprising. It was probably the first person who had ever defeated him in combat, and Akkarin knew perfectly well what it felt like and what it meant to one’s pride. He only hoped that Balkan was reasonable enough to put that behind him and deal with his hurt feelings in private.

“What should we do with them?” Balkan asked, his shaking voice barely containing anger. He gestured both of the Ichani, but did not approach them. Not yet, anyway.

“’Tie them up and put them in the Dome under constant guard,” the High Lord ordered, choosing the best of bad options they had. “Do not let a single student near the building. And let me know when they wake up.”

Balkan’s face twisted in distaste, but he nodded and started giving orders. Akkarin was not paying attention to their actions – the Ichani were out of power and therefore harmless. At least for now. So he approached Lorlen who was kneeling beside Sonea, his eyes closed, and her hand in his own.

“What is it?” Akkarin asked, and Lorlen opened his eyes after a moment.

“Her power has been completely drained,” the Administrator answered, his voice quivering. “I have no idea when she will wake up.”

The High Lord waited, for the last unspoken sentence hung between them, begging to be vocalised. He wondered if Lorlen had enough courage to vocalise it.

“Will she wake up at all?”

Akkarin kneeled beside them and checked the pulse on Sonea’s wrist, which was one of those few thing he had actually learnt during his Healing classes. The pulse was slow and weak, but it was there.

If there was no pulse, he would simply go and cut the throat of that Sachakan bitch.

“I was in such a state myself a few times,” he finally answered. “It is not fatal.”

“I would give her my power, but I already shared it with her and does not seem to work,” Lorlen tightened his grip on Sonea’s hand, his moves frantic and agitated. Akkarin took a moment to think, then put his hand on the Administrator’s shoulder.

“Take this, it is hers after all,” he said and sent his friend most of the power he took from the Ichani. Lorlen’s eyes widened when he felt the enormity of this magic, but he quickly adjusted and changed himself into a living conductor with the only purpose of returning Sonea’s stolen power to her. She did not wake up, but her breath became steadier and deeper.

Akkarin reached out to tuck a strand of Sonea’s hair behind her ear. There was a bruise on her temple and a cut on her jaw on the same side of the girl’s face. She must have fallen over, he thought, or the bitch was beating her. Then he looked down at her hand which Lorlen was still holding tightly, as though his life depended on it. There was a cut on her arm, thin but deep, and the High Lord knew it was going to scar. Cuts like that always did.

“Akkarin,” Lorlen said quietly, “what now?”


	8. Chapter 8

Sonea woke up with a blurry vision and a mind full of buzzing thoughts which lacked coherence.

Her whole body was aching and even such a simple move as raising a hand seemed impossible. Her dry throat was demanding water, but she had no idea how to sit, not to mention get up to fill a glass. After a while of concentration, she focused her gaze enough to recognise the ceiling in her room. If she was in her room, then maybe Viola was somewhere nearby, and she could bring some water. Sonea wanted to call the servant, but her throat was able to produce only a barely audible, faint croak.

And yet someone heard.

“Sonea?”

She tried to gulp, but her throat was too dry, and _it hurt so much_ , so she mustered enough strength to merely turn her head to look at that someone who spoke.

It was Rothen, but his face... By the Eye, he looked so _tormented_ , his eyes red as though he cried lately, his hair sticking up in various directions, and the front of his robes mangled. He must have slept in it, she realised.

“’Sonea... oh for the love of—Sonea!” he whispered, tears filling his eyes anew as he placed a shaking hand on her cheek. It gave her a little bit of warmth she desperately needed. She wanted to smile, and muscles of her jaw seemed to be willing to oblige.

“I...” she managed to swallow, and tried again. “Wa—water.”

Rothen hastily turned towards the bedside table, almost falling over his own feet in the process. Had she been able to, she would have laughed at first and scolded him later. But almost immediately something wonderfully cold touched her lips, and the water had never tasted so good before. Her stomach gave a wild lurch, but she could not tell whether it was because of the hunger, or if she was going to be sick.

“I’ll be right back,” Rothen said when she finally settled for not vomiting, and lay back on a pillow with a sigh full of bliss.

She forced her mind to work, to _remember_ why she was so miserably weak and why everything hurt. It did not cooperate, though, and the last thing she recalled was wondering if Akkarin could be interested in helping a lady whose name Sonea could not even remember. She also did not know why it was so important to her all of a sudden, or why he should be interested in the first place. And why was _she_ interested in some lady or another while she could not care less about the nobles, Sonea could not even begin to grasp, let alone understand.

 _Jonna_ , she suddenly thought as something clicked in her mind. _Jonna told me to ask him._

Sonea huffed, but her mouth curved in a slight smile at the same moment. Her aunt was so determined in insisting that Akkarin was a good man that it did not even annoy Sonea anymore, even though she pretended otherwise just for the sake of it. It seemed that Jonna’s maternal instict kicked in every time the High Lord was concerned, although he was not even _that much_ younger than Sonea’s aunt.

Not to mention that they had only met once. Well, truth be told, Jonna was always quick to like people. Sonea wished her aunt had met Rothen.

She frowned, unsure where that came from. After all, now that Akkarin had allowed her and Rothen contact again, Jonna could meet the first magician whom her niece had learnt not to hate. There was no reason why—

Sonea’s mind provided her with a memory of a woman’s terrified yell, a man’s angry shout, and a child’s cry, and she suddenly felt sick.

 _No,_ she thought as panic swept over her. She did not even realise that she spoke that thought aloud. _No, no, no, oh please, no..._

When the door opened a while later, Sonea was trying to stand, her shaking legs refusing to support her weight. It was Akkarin who jumped forward and managed to catch her before she fell. She looked away, ashamed of her weakness and hating it passionately. She should have been running towards the slums right now, not being lain down like a child.

“Let me... go,” she said hoarsely, her throat working much better since she had drunk. “I need to... see...”

“You need to rest,” Lorlen objected firmly and put a hand on her shoulder. She felt a familiar itching of being examined by a Healer. “You are better, but you are still weak.”

She gritted her teeth and pulled herself into a sitting position. “My family. I need to... make sure they’re all right.”

They exchanged glances – so quickly that it was almost impossible to notice – and it was enough for Sonea’s heart to twist painfully and shatter. She felt tears coming to her eyes, but she forced herself not to cry. She was not going to let them see her cry. She would weep, of course, and mourn, but only alone. She was not a child anymore, she did not need nor want and audience and their pity.

“I’m... “I’m sure they’re all right,” said Rothen, his eyes not meeting hers.

“I am sorry,” Akkarin said at the same time. Both men looked at the other one as soon as the sentence was finished.

“You should have waited,” Rothen said angrily. Although he seemed to tolerate Akkarin’s presence in the same room, his patience apparently did not apply to whatever the High Lord might say.

“For what?” Akkarin retorted. “Waiting does not make such news easier to bear.”

“How would you know?” Rothen almost growled. “You haven’t—“

“Be quiet, both of you,” Sonea said hoarsely. She wanted to yell, but her throat was unable to do so. The last thing she wanted was a quarrel. If they wanted to argue, they had to take it outside – and she could not care less what would happen if they did. Not now, not with... what had happened. Maybe she would care again in the future, but it seemed just so highly unlikely.

They obeyed, however, and she was grateful for that.

“You,” she said, trying to raise her hand to point at Akkarin. The gesture did not exactly look as she intended, but he apparently got the gist of it. A glimmer of amusement appeared in his eyes, probably caused by the way he was addressed. Sonea was too tired to be shocked by her own behaviour. “Are you... sure?”

His face became serious again. “Yes,” he nodded. “I... made sure the—they will be ready for a funeral when you feel well enough.”

Sone felt dumbness gradually overcoming her body; cold, unshakeable dumbness much worse than anything she had ever felt. Not even her current state could compare with it. She felt hollow, as if everything that made her function and endure had disappeared, leaving nothing behind. There was something else, though, something that felt red and hot, but it was too small to matter. She suspected that in time it would grow and she would know what it meant, but not yet.

“She was...” Sonea whimpered and cleared her throat, ashamed of what it sounded like. Akkarin, of all people, gave her an approving nod, and somehow it made her feel... stronger. “She was with child.”

Something appeared in the High Lord’s eyes; something that was gone within a second, but looked dangerously out of control. He made a move towards the door, but Lorlen grabbed him by the arm without trying to be gentle or inconspicuous. “Akkarin, _no_ ,” he said with a definite tone in his words.

“Let me go, Lorlen,” the High Lord growled, and there was something in his voice Sonea had never heard before.

“We need her, you said so yourself,” the Administrator calmly said, not taking his hand off Akkarin’s arm. Akkarin hunched his shoulders slightly, as if battling himself with every bit of strength and self-control he could muster. Whatever it was he fought, he seemed to be winning. Sonea realised she should have been curious, but curiosity was completely out of her reach.

She just wanted to be alone and to escape pity she saw in Rothen’s eyes. She did not need pity.

Lorlen seemed to have realised that, because he muttered something about the need to rest, and herded the others out of the room. Only when they left, Sonea allowed herself to weep.

* * *

Akkarin was impatiently tapping his foot on the floor, but he was not paying attention to the surroundings, his mind disengaged as he was watching flames dancing wildly in the fireplace. He had come to a realisation that looking at the fire made his racing thoughts calm down, and all the frustration and anger and an overwhelming feeling of not knowing what to do with his life subsided just that little bit that allowed him to relax.

The Eye only knew how much he needed to relax.

His muscles were still sore after the fight with the Ichani woman, and he was constantly trying to come up with a way to extract information from both of them, without downgrading to the methods _they_ would use. So far he had nothing, and an idea of having to read their minds repulsed him. It would be like taking a bath in the sewers. Or worse, in the Tarali River. But, in the end, he would probably have to do that, and it made him want to throw up. It felt somehow... _different_ from reading minds of the slaves the outcasts had been sending in the past. He did not want to know the motives which had made the Ichani what they were. He just wanted them gone.

A new wave of arguments caught his attention for a moment, and he listened briefly before directing his attention back at the fireplace. They were neither saying nor doing anything that would surprise him.

He had told the Higher Magicians the last piece of a puzzle, and they reacted exactly as he thought they would.

They screamed about treason and called for blood. Lorlen was trying to calm them down, mostly to no avail; his words about ‘trying to understand the circumstances’ ringing weak and hollow. Lastly, Balkan was sulking in a armchair facing the wall, his expression grim and distant. Akkarin was mildly interested when – if – he would speak. The Head of Warriors seemed to have taken his time to think, and the High Lord wondered about results. They might prove useful.

“I could really use your help here,” Lorlen hissed under his breath, loud enough just for Akkarin to hear. The High Lord sighed, afraid that he would be more successful if he talked to the wall, but he eventually nodded and looked at the Higher Magicians. They were now arguing between themselves, the original subject of their quarrel long forgotten.

“You know,” he said, and they immediately fell silent, “it is so easy to judge and decide when you are all happy, safe and comfortable, with food and drinks available whenever you want them, and warm beds waiting for you.”

They glared without a word.

“But, you see,” he continued slowly and unsurely, as it was still too raw of a memory to share easily; it would probably always be like that, “it was not like that for me when I made that decision. It was not something I mused on with roof over my head. No. I had five years of—of slavery behind me, five years of torture, abuse, starvation and terror. I had no hope of getting out of that—my situation, no dreams to return to, and no means of fighting back that... son of a whore who did that to me. You know, when there is nothing to lose and your life means less than nothing, you do not _consider,_ you don’t _hesitate_ , you simply _take the only option you have_.”

There. He said it. And it was by no means simpler than the first time he had shared his story. If anything, it was even harder, because they were looking at him as though he were some kind of an interesting bug to be studied.

He felt _exposed_ and it was horrible.

“I will not tell you what it was like, because you will not understand,” he said angrily, hoping for any kind of reaction on their end. “You _cannot_ understand. But know this: if I could, I would have changed many things in my past, but not the black magic. It is the only reason I am still alive, and the only reason I was able to leave that nightmare and come back home.”

Sarrin looked extremely unimpressed, his doubt could not be more obvious if he spoke it aloud. Vinara, on the other hand, seemed to be torn between revulsion and denial.

“There must have been other ways,” she said angrily. “If what you said is true, of course.”

Her accusation felt like a physical slap to the face. Akkarin did not like to be slapped. “You have no idea what you are talking about,” he growled, his irritation getting stronger and stronger. “You do not know enslavement. You do not know what it is like to have your freedom and dignity taken from you. You do not know the humiliation of it. And, most importantly, you do not know what happens when you try to escape and fail to do so.”

He stood up and began taking off the upper half of his robe. The Higher Magicians gave him looks that ranged from puzzlement to amusement. Akkarin knew that they were soon going to be as far from being amused as possible.

“There is this particular kind of whip the Ichani use to punish their slaves,” he continued as he was undressing himself. “It has got a couple of tails with knots and shards of metal woven into them, and it is wetted before an Ichani... strap you to a rock and gets to work. And the result,” he took off his undershirt and let it fall onto the floor, “is this.”

Sarrin gave a startled cry and covered his mouth. Lorlen, ashen-faced, purposedly looked away after the initial glance. Vinara was horribly pale, but she forced herself to take a closer look. Only Balkan did not seem to be affected in any way.

“How many times—?” the Head of Healers asked quietly.

“Enough to eventually stop trying to escape,” the High Lord answered. He knew that his back would make an impression he needed. After all, the only person in this room who might have been at least indifferent was Vinara, as she had seen her share of blood and wounds. But the rest... _Aristocrats_ , Akkarin thought mockingly.

“It looks like these have healed without magic,” she said thoughtfully, looking him right in the eye for the first time in the whole evening.

“My power was taken from me every day,” he explained, showing her tiny scars on his arms. Somehow, he had feeling that if she took his side, everyone else would follow. “I have learnt how long a wound _really_ takes to heal. Especially after almost bleeding to death.”

There was a moment of silence after which Vinara bowed her head almost respectfully. “’I apologise for implying that you lied about your—what happened to you, High Lord,” she said. “’This does not, however, mean that I accept the black magic as the way to resolve the problem of the Ichani. There must be a way to deal with them that does not involve the black magic, and, as we still have time, we might be able to find it.”

“There is no other way,” Balkan said before Akkarin did so. Vinara looked at the Head of Warriors, surprised and annoyed, probably because her opinion was not supported.

“Lord Balkan—“

“No,” he cut her in, and Akkarin smirked as he started putting his robe on again. This was going to be good. “You did not fight her. _I_ did. And I lost. I was not tired or out of power and I surely was ready to fight, and yet I did not stand a chance. Such amount of power is unnatural. If we do not increase our own, we will lose before the war even starts.”

“The black magic is _wrong_ ,” she huffed. “It is _evil_. We cannot lower ourselves to such barbarism.”

“Tell that to them,” Balkan snapped angrily. “I am sure they will be thrilled to listen. They might even obey our law if you are convincing enough! How wonderful would that be, do you not think? An aggressor who weaken himself just to please the invaded.”

Silence fell over them, heavy and uncomfortable. Akkarin could see the torment on Vinara’s and Sarrin’s faces; denial that was trying to fight with reason – and losing the battle. He knew how easy it was to see things in black and white, with no shades of grey between them; he used to see the world like that as well. He was also aware how painful it was to change one’s perspective, especially about something that a constant for someone’s entire life.

He was glad that Vinara could be reasoned with, because it was only her who needed convincing. Sarrin would simply do what she did.

“All right,” she said slowly, a scowl twisting her face almost painfully. “All right, I agree. If you say that this is the only way, then I agree with your judgement. But, the Eye be my witness, if I ever find out that there _is_ another solution, I will make sure you hand for your treachery. Even if it is the last thing I do.”

“Fair enough,” Akkarin shrugged, knowing that the threat was empty. He realised that Vinara would be suspicious of him from now on, but he did not care. He did not need her friendship, he just needed her cooperation.

“What do you suggest, then?” Sarrin asked calmly, although he was still a little bit too pale.

“I think that each one of you should learn,” the High Lord suggested. Balkan nodded grimly, and it was obvious that revenge was the best motivation of them all. Akkarin knew that perfectly. “And you should choose five people you trust most, and teach them. This should make our numbers roughly equal to the Ichani’s.”

“I will pass,” Sarrin shook his head. “My Alchemists are not trained to fight, it’ll be better if we have additional Warriors or Healers.”

“That is for you to decide,” the High Lord gestured to the three Heads of disciplines. They looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

“And what about the King?” Lorlen asked, and Akkarin glanced at him with surprise. He almost forgot that the Administrator was still in the room.

“The King does not have to know,” the High Lord answered angrily. “I warned him and he did not listen. Now people are dead because of him. I will no longer ask for his help.”

“Akkarin, this is _treason_ ,” Lorlen said, his voice full of shock and disbelief.

“I will take the blame and responsibility for everything once this is over,” he said sternly. “Not sooner. If we have to wait for Merin to decide anything, we lose Kyralia.”

“I am not sure that betraying our King is a good way to start,” Sarrin said slowly, Vinara nodding her agreement. “I do understand that this is a situation that calls for desperate measures, but maybe we should not start with betraying our country.”

“It is not the country we are talking about, Lord Sarrin,” Akkarin said, somewhat glad that the old Alchemist finally decided to take part in the discussion. “We are doing this _for_ the country. The King, however... I have a feeling that he did not take the Ichani seriously the last time I told him about them. If that was to happen again, or if he decided to talk with other leaders of the Allied Lands first about possible changes or ways to defend Kyralia... We might find ourselves under attack before the talks even begin.”

“You do not know that,” Vinara shook her head. “The situation has changed. The Guild’s member was attacked, her family killed, and we have the culprits in custody. It might speed things up.”

“’This is why I am meeting the King and the Sachakan ambassador tomorrow,” the High Lord said, his insides twisting at the mere thought. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day indeed. “I will assess to what extent we might be able to include the King in our plans. However, if I were you, I would not hold my breath.”

“I will await the results then,” the Head of Healers said and stood up. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to think through everything we talked about today.”

One by one they left after her, and only Lorlen lingered by the door, causing Akkarin to wonder what might have caused his hesitation to leave.

“So this is how the Guild changes,” the Administrator said at last. “Not because of the will of every magician, but during secret meetings caused by an upcoming crisis.”

The High Lord leant against the doorframe on the opposite side of his old friend. He wondered for a moment if he could still call him that.

“I do believe we will be able to return to democracy once the threat is dealt with,” he said and scowled. “All of this... plotting. I do not like this. I would rather face them already than wait as a pig for a slaughter.”

“Once a Warrior, always a Warrior, are you not?” Lorlen glanced at him, his expression utterly serious, and returned his gaze to the darkness in from of him. “You just cannot wait to be able to fight them.”

“To be honest, my—Lorlen,” Akkarin corrected himself, but not quickly enough to avoid making taht sentence sound awkward, “I am so terrified that all I can think about is running away somewhere they would never find me.”

It was only a half of the truth, as he also wanted to kill every single one of the Ichani and see their lifeless bodies on the ground, their blood sinking into the sand, and... He shook his head, trying to chase away the images. His bloodthirsty thoughts were too terrifying to share with anyone, and he felt dirty because of their mere existence.

The Eye above, Dakova really _did_ change him.

“Well, I cannot help you with that,” Lorlen shrugged, not looking at the other man. “To be honest, I doubt _anyone_ can.”

“Thank you for at least helping with convincing them.”

“I did not do it for you,” the Administrator finally looked him in the eye. “Goodnight, Akkarin.”

The High Lord stood there long minutes after Lorlen left, staring into the night even though there was nothing to look at. What was left of his and Lorlen’s friendship crumbled and fell to the ground around him, as just another regret was added to his already heavy heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things that might need a further explanation:  
> 1\. For the Sachakan whip, you might want to look up the cat o’nine tails – I based it on that and added a few things on my own.  
> 2\. I assume that because of the healing, the magicians and the nobility of the Allied Lands (most specifically, Kyralia, as this is where the action is located for now) are not be entirely familiar and comfortable with the concept of blood, severe wounds and scars bigger than those left by a cut. In The Magicians’ Guild there was a woman who cried just because her son might have two tiny scars for the rest of his life. Hence the terror caused by Akkarin’s scars – I guess it could be unthinkable for the elite that something like that might have happened to a noble.  
> 3\. And, as for Akkarin’s scars, at first I thought about giving him Keloid scarring. But – as people of Kyralia are white – it wouldn’t be so likely to appear, no matter how severe his wounds were. That’s where the metal shards on the whip came from – cuts would bleed severely and could be deep enough to damage some of the sensory nerves after a couple of “sessions” (as I believe that Akkarin didn’t stop trying to escape after the first failed attempt). So what I have in mind while writing about his scars, is layer after layer of overlapping scars caused by multiple flogging.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I finally know where this story is heading.  
> On a side note, I wish you all a happy and prosperous New Year. May it be better than the one that’s coming to an end.

The Sachakan ambassador, Ashaki Hachiro, was blatantly staring at Akkarin the whole meeting, and Akkarin did not like it at all.

Hachiro was a man surprisingly thin for an Ashaki, his face tanned as if caressed by winds and sunlight more often than it usually happened to man of his position. He wore his fair share of jewellery, but it all seemed to be chosen with taste. His eyes were cold and judging, but his lips were curved in something between a smirk and a scowl. Akkarin would have understood the scowl. The smirk, on the other hand, he was unable to explain.

And the _stare_. By the Eye, his stare was driving the High Lord mad. It was impossible to read anything from it. As difficult as it was to believe, he finally met someone who wore a mask better than him.

“Like I said,” Hachiro kept talking, the same words retold on both sides over and over again, for none of them seemed to be willing to give up some ground, “the Ichani are outcasts. The Sachakan Empire cannot be held responsible for their actions.”

Akkarin gritted his teeth and fought back an urge to snap at the ambassador – and maybe snap his neck as well. He was fully aware how stupid that would be, but his hands itched with a desire of their own. The King and his advisers still managed to remain fairly calm, but their reserves of patience did not seen to be substantial anymore.

“It would be a common courtesy to at least apologise for what happened,” the King said. His words caused Akkarin to wince as though they were some kind of a small animal that just sank its teeth in his leg. There they were, at the point of _begging_ for an apology that would allow the Kyralians to leave the meeting with at least a shred of dignity.

“Why would we apologise for something that was not done by any of our citizens?” Hachiro asked earnestly, the tone of his voice making an impression that he truly believed in what he was saying. “It would make as much sense as apologising for misdeeds of someone from the Allied Lands.”

“People have died!” Akkarin growled, his mouth acting on its own before he could have stopped himself. The King’s advisers shot him furious glares, but those did not bother him. Their dual morality was not his concern anymore.

The ambassador looked at him, and something deep inside the High Lord wanted to shrink. He defiantly refused and returned the stare, trying to hold back his amazement. It was as looking into complete nothingness, and he enviously marvelled at the extent to which Hachiro mastered the art of hiding his feelings. It was probably a trait most welcome in the world of politics, but something about it set Akkarin on edge.

An undefined suspicion formed in his mind, but he did not have time to ponder on it.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about it?” the Sachakan asked, his voice as calm as ever. “Once they are dead, there is not much one can do.”

“What about our prisoners in that case?” Merin asked, noticing an opening just in time to use it. His expression was becoming more and more grim, for he apparently realised what a waste of time the meeting was. Akkarin did not have such delusions to begin with.

Hachiro waved his hand dismissively. “Do whatever you want,” he said. “The Empire does not care.”

Had he been in the mood, Akkarin would have laughed at the advisers’ shocked faces. He, however, was not surprised, knowing well enough how the Ichani were treated by the rest of the Sachakan society. Had his companions in this misery be willing to listen to him, he would have shared his knowledge.

“I will have that in mind when I deal with them,” he announced, earning chilling glances from the others. On the other hand, the ambassador merely smirked as though Akkarin’s words were entertaining.

“I am sure you will,” he said, his smirk faltering. “I must admit I wonder what caused the Ichani’s aggression in the first place. It is unheard of them to be able to organise this well and launch attacks on something or _someone_ other than themselves.”

Akkarin gritted his teeth so forcefully that his jaw responded with pain. Was Hachiro looking at him when he said that? Was there a glimmer of some sort in his eyes? How could he—

The High Lord forced himself to dismiss those thoughts. They were far too paranoid even for him.

“They appear to be mad,” one of the advisers said with disgust. “I do not think they need a reason.”

“Everyone has got their reasons,” Hachiro said in a serious voice. This time Akkarin was sure that the Sachakan glanced at him before replying.

It would seem that his paranoia was justified after all.

* * *

“I am thinking about enlisting soldiers for an army,” Merin said after a long while of silence. Akkarin looked at him, perplexed and suspicious. The two of them were alone in the conference room, the advisers and the ambassador had already left when it had become obvious that frustration had been the only thing successfully achieved during the meeting.

“With all due respect, an army will not be able to defeat the Ichani,” the High Lord commented. The idea itself felt... wrong. “People without magic do not stand a chance against those who wield it.”

“The Ichani are not my main concern,” the King said as casually as it was possible to do so. He was tapping his fingers on the table, a frantic sound that was driving Akkarin crazy. “There are problems within Kyralian borders that need to be resolved first.”

The High Lord’s mind, dulled by the meeting, picked up speed as the meaning of Merin’s words sank in. “If I understand correctly, Your Majesty,” he said slowly, “you plan to make an army with the sole purpose of maintaining peace _in_ Kyralia.”

 _Let me be wrong_ , he thought with terror.

“Yes,” the King nodded, his tone mildly amused.

_The Eye above, please let me be wrong._

“My King, this is the Guild’s responsibility.”

“The Guild has failed,” Merin announced, and Akkarin’s heart stopped after those words.

 _He knows,_ he thought with absolute certainty. _The question is: who told him?_

“My King...” he said with reluctance, unsure of how to proceed. There were many things he could say, but every single one of them was wrong. He could not act on suspicions alone and he could not prepare an answer for a question he did not know. “The Guild has not changed in years. However, if there is anything in our activities that ceased to satisfy your needs, I will personally ensure the changes.”

“Do not act as if you do not know what I am talking about,” Merin snapped at him, but somehow, in a way Akkarin did not comprehend, it caused him relief. It took a while to understand that in fact it was merely the tapping that stopped and made release a breath he was not aware of holding. “Did you think that I would not find out? Fortunately enough, there are magicians who are still loyal to me.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Your Majesty,” the High Lord said, abandoning all pretences and reservations. If the King knew, there was nothing he could do. If that was about something else entirely, it was best to find out.

With a sudden clarity, Akkarin realised that he was tired of both playing and devising games. They plagued him since childhood and he unexpectedly reached his limits where he used to think there were none. Too bad the biggest game of his life was yet to be played.

“You have engaged the Sachakans despite I explicitly forbade you,” Merin said and this time Akkarin knew the reason behind a wave of relief that made his heart lighter than it felt in a long time. It was about the Sachakans, not the black magic. Whoever decided to be the King’s informant, at least he or she was not _that_ suicidal. “And I was informed that you intend on doing that.”

“Your Majesty, they have attacked the Guild and almost killed my novice,” the High Lord said, realising that their conversation was quickly becoming as tedious and pointless as the meeting that had preceded it. “They butchered Kyralian citizens. Those were _your_ subjects that died. Do you not care at all?”

Merin smirked, although his eyes remained cold and calculating. Akkarin realised that if he looked into a mirror, his own eyes would probably have looked exactly the same.

No wonder _she_ loathed him so much.

“You do not need to act as if you cared about the slums, I am not your novice,” Merin finally answered. “You ought to remember to care about people who might actually lose something or someone because of your wild endeavours.”

The High Lord forced himself not to ball his hands into fists. Had he hoped to actually achieve something? He could not remember. “Your Majesty,” he said when he trusted his voice to be neutral enough, “everything I do is in the best interest of Kyralia.”

“I will try to remember that when yet another Sachakan dies in my city,” the King retorted drily.

“Do not worry, you will hear of no such thing,” Akkarin said in a matching tone. Merin did not comment, but his gaze told Akkarin that the King perfectly understood the meaning of that sentence and did not like it at all.

“Do _not_ disobey me again, High Lord,” he said without any inclination to conceal a threat underlying his words.

“I would never, my King,” Akkarin replied and bowed deeply in attempt to hide the scowl on his face.

He was simply too tired to keep his mask on.

When Merin finally dismissed him, the High Lord did not even bother to hide his relief. That utter disregard, the abandonment of all pretences that was so unusual for him made him feel unexplainably free. He tried to remember the last time he felt like that, and failed.

An idea was born of that realisation, one he had never considered before. By the time he returned to the Guild, a shadow of smile lodged itself on his face and his heart was almost weightless in his chest.

Maybe if he survived the mess he had got himself into, he would finally have something to look forward to.


	10. Chapter 10

Music for this chapter: _What The Heart Craves For_ by Collapse Under The Empire (from _Sacrifice & Isolation_)

* * *

 

Sonea could see the Dome from her room.

It was partially obscured by trees and buildings, and merely lit by the clouded Eye, but she could still see it. Even if she did not, she would probably keep looking in that direction, as though the Dome were a magnet and her mind a scrap of metal inevitably drawn towards it. She could not stop staring at that building even though she wanted to.

Every time she averted her gaze, a small, masochistic part of mind reminded her that people who killed her family – and almost killed her – were _right there_ , not so far away from her. It was enough to force her feet to carry her back to the window.

She did not cry today and she considered it to be quite a success. It was as though the tears had ended. She wanted to believe that, no matter how childish such an assumption was, because the alternative was that she was yet to spend many days mourning her family. She was unsure she could do that. It was too much of a torment.

And yet there she was, by the window, looking at the Dome with tired eyes and heavy heart. A part of her desperately wanted things to go back to the way they used to be, but there was also another one, a small one she used to be completely unaware of. That small part of her wanted to put a knife in the Sachakans’ chests and watch them bleed until there was no more blood in their veins. Sonea realised that she should be frightened and repulsed at the mere thought of that, she knew that murdering them would be equal with lowering herself to their – and Akkarin’s – level.

However, she did not care. What little she had, they had taken from her. How could she let them get away with that? How could she let that go unpunished?

Because unpunished it would remain, she was sure of that. It was not the nobility that died. To the nobles, death of her relatives meant probably as much as death of rats. Both were unseen and purposely unacknowledged.

Sonea groaned and forcefully wiped a few tears that trailed down her cheeks. She was not going to cry. No, she was going to visit the prisoners and...

 _Do what?_ , she asked herself, although the answer to that question was obvious. There was nothing she could do. She was merely a victim of circumstances, caught in a conflict that was not her own. And, as it was and always had been, people like her could do nothing else but try to survive.

Sonea realised that a simple survival was not always something to look for. Not when surviving meant an empty life.

So maybe it was time to forge her life anew in a way that would make her capable of saving those who mattered to her.

Sonea stepped away from the window and closed the curtains, as if that sudden move were supposed to be some kind of a symbol for her to cling to from now on. She had a need for some kind of a constant, something she could relate to, something she could perceive as a milestone from which she would move on. Forcing herself to step away from the window could as well be that moment, even though the Dome was imprinted on her mind. All she was able to do was to hope that it would disappear one day, dissolving into one of those memories too painful to be remembered, memories that left merely a vague sense of loss years later.

Right now, though, Sonea at least wanted to put pieces of herself back together in an attempt at filling a gaping hole that resided in her heart ever since she had been told that her family had not survived. Would it ever be filled, she wondered with a menacing certainty that it would not.

However, learning how to live with that hole would have to wait. First, she had to define herself anew, find new priorities, and determine what she wanted to do with her life. As of now, she had no clue, although she admitted that magic lost its previous appeal. How could it now, when the magic itself was what deprived her of her family?

She looked at the books with a surprisingly considerable resentment. Although Lorlen had said that she had been well enough to attend the classes again, he had also suggested that she should take a few more days off. Akkarin, on the other hand, had left it entirely up to her. All of a sudden, she appreciated that lack of pressure on his end, especially with Lorlen and Rothen both speaking in “shoulds” and “musts”. She did not need people telling her what to do. She needed...

To be honest, she was unsure what she needed. Maybe if she...

An unexpected sound interrupted her train of thoughts. At first she thought that Takan dropped something, but at the same time a more rational part of her brain told her that the kitchen was located too far from her room, not to mention that it was probably a middle of a night. When another, much louder sound followed the first one, panic overwhelmed her as the only thing she could think about was a Sachakan attack.

How could they trespass on the Guild’s grounds unseen? How such an intrusion could succeed in the Residence of all places?

Then two thoughts hit her. First of all, over a year ago they _did_ manage to get inside the Residence after all, and second, no sounds followed the last one. She could hear no magic battle, not even a simple physical struggle. No one was yelling, Takan did not come running to take her to safety. She could her nothing but the silence of a house that was not home, but merely a place to sleep at nights. After a moment of thinking, during which “who cares” battled with “why not?” she left her room, slowly and with reservations that would have been justified if there had been a Sachakan army rampaging through the corridors.

But there was no army,, and she felt utterly stupid. The empty dark corridor did not look any different than it did the last time she was in it. No door was ajar, now window was forced open by hypothetical wind. Had she been sleeping, she would have been sure that she had dreamed about those sounds. She groaned to herself and, after a moment of consideration, approached Akkarin’s room. Even though highly unlikely, there was a sliver of possibility that there _was_ in fact a Sachakan in the Residence, and she was certain he would like to know that.

Sone hesitated, her hand hanging mid-air as a sudden surge of hyper-awareness took over her thoughts. She was just about to knock on her Guardian’s door in the middle of a night – and for what? Just because she thought she might have heard something, and her grieving heart immediately jumped to a wrong conclusion. She had to remind herself that she despised the man with every fibre of her being, and with everything that recently happened that little bit of constant should have brought comfort. Instead, she was surprised to find nothing but cold ashes where her fiery hatred used to reside. A seed of a new perspective began to sprout in its place, the seed that was born of grief and unnecessary deaths.

Or maybe she was simply unable to hate him anymore just because Jonna had been fond of him.

Sonea sighed and knocked softly on Akkarin’s door, expecting – and hoping for – no answer. She did not know what time it was exactly, but she expected it was already past midnight. For what she knew, he should be—

“Go away, Takan.”

—sleeping. She scowled at the tone of his voice, annoyed and tired, utterly resigned to whatever he felt. She raised her hand to knock again, but a muffled curse stopped her. She did not know the language, but its accent gave it away – Akkarin swore in Sachakan. Her stomach twisted sickly as a wave of coldness swept over her. Her thoughts raced, fighting with an urge to run away, but before she made a decision to do so, Akkarin opened the door and looked at her, his tired eyes giving off an impression of a sleepless night.

“Do you want something, Sonea?” he asked politely, as though they were having one of those usual, useless little chats that happened every day after her classes. She looked hesitantly at him, mentally cursing herself for not ignoring those noises. They were probably caused by an animal that ventured too far into the Guild’s grounds, but she just _had_ to see Sachakans lurking in shadows, and lurking behind every corner.

“No, she answered. “I just...”

She hesitated when she realised no words were truly appropriate to say, but he just waited. “I heard something, and I... I was afraid it’s the Sachakans again, just like a year ago,” she finally finished. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“You did not, I was not asleep,” he said after a while of silence, as if he wanted to say something else but in the end thought better of it. “And no, that was not the Sachakans. That was me.”

She blinked and looked at him in askance, as though something in his face could immediately resolve her doubts. However, she saw nothing drastically different from what— _No_ , she corrected herself. Once again she noticed that he lacked his usual composure, that instead of a haughty coldness his posture radiated nothing but tiredness. Once again he gave an impression of a regular human being and she found it terrifying. She knew what to expect from the High Lord. Akkarin the man, on the other hand, was an uncharted territory.

“Is everything all right?” she asked tentatively, although she was certain that their current situation could not be further from ‘all right’. Akkarin was looking at her for a moment, then glanced at something in his bedroom and let out a tired sigh.

“Do I look—“

“Do you smell smoke?” she cut him in before he managed to finish whatever question he was about to ask. A faint smell that unexpectedly filled the corridor seemed to be much more important than what he had to say. “I think something’s burning.”

He muttered an unintelligible curse under his breath and went back into his room, leaving a half-open door behind him. Much to her surprise, Sonea felt a slight pang of curiosity but restrained herself from entering uninvited. After all, curiosity never brought anything good into her life, but she was content that for the first time in days she felt something else than grief.

However, she was unable to explain why she waited for him to return.

“Thank you for noticing,” he muttered once he came back. “And since you are already here... How are you feeling, Sonea?”

 _Fine_ , she wanted to say. _What do you care?_ , she considered adding, but both possibilities were equally inadequate answers. ‘How are you feeling?’ was not a question that could be asked by any of them, not with the kind of relationship they had. It was the question that belonged amongst friends.

And yet, despite all their history, hurt, and all the accusations that were never spoken, when Sonea opened her mouth, the most unexpected answer left it.

“I’m terrified,” she said. She regretted doing that almost immediately, because Akkarin fixed his his unwavering gaze upon her. She did not raise her eyes to meet his, she refused to accept pity she was certain to expect. Those days, everyone looked at her with pity, and she wanted no more of it. Especially not from _him_.

“Come in,” the High Lord said after a moment of silence and stepped aside to open the door. Sones’a eyes involuntarily shot upwards, and she froze in shock. There was no pity in his gaze, only understanding, but it did not make it any easier to step inside. She was violating almost all of the Guild’s rules known to her, and probably even more of those she was unaware of. If anyone ever found out, her reputation would be inadvertently ruined. Of course, no one would ever say anything about Akkarin, at least not openly, but _she_ would be undoubtedly subjected to a witch hunt.

However, realising that he would not have invited her inside if he had expected someone to find out, Sonea threw her caution to the wind and followed him into his room with only a vague impression of what to expect.

She would have never imagined a bookcase reduced to splinters and covered with countless pages of partially burnt books.

A horrifying suspicion rose inside her, simply impossible to reject. It grew and lodged itself in her throat, leaving her desperate for air, and yet unable to breathe. “I was right,” she croaked, “they were here, weren’t they, they—“

She saw him putting his hands on her shoulders, but she could barely feel it. However, the cut on her forearm suddenly seemed to be burning.

“Sonea, look at me,” he said in a concerned tone she had heard from him before. “Sonea!”

She raised her head and looked into the tired eyes of a man she did not know.

“There was no one here,” he stated firmly with what seemingly all the conviction in the world. “I told you, that was me. They will not hurt you here, you have nothing to worry about. Now take a deep breath.”

She did as she was told.

“Another. And again.”

After a moment that felt like ages, an invisible fist released Sonea’s stomach from its grasp. It took her another, even longer while to calm down her, her cheeks flushed and heart full of shame. She rejected pity from the others, but now she felt it herself. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking at the floor. She could not face him. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do,” Akkarin said. Simply, openly, and without a sliver of sarcasm. “It is nothing to be sorry about.”

She waited a moment, wondering if any elaboration was about to happen. “How would you know?” she asked, when it became obvious that he was going to say no more of that. Her question would have once been a defiant one; now, it was hollow.

Akkarin looked at the pile of broken wood and burnt paper, the pile that used to be his bookcase. He nudged it idly with his feet, sighed and, much to Sonea’s astonishment, sat on the floor with his back against the bed. “As much as it pains me,” he started in a voice at least partially resembling his usual tone, the one with bitter sarcasm underlying every word, the one she hated with fiery passion, “you _did_ see my back. Did you really think _I_ did that to myself?”

Sonea blinked, taken aback by his sudden and unusual openness. “I...” she stuttered, “I didn’t really think about it.”

He averted his gaze from the ceiling and fixed it on her. She forced herself to hold it. “You did not, did you?” he said in a voice that despite the meaning of those words held no blame. “You just ran to Lorlen.”

“ _That_ I thought about,” she snapped. Much to her surprise, a genuine laugh was his response.

“Sit down, Sonea,” he offered with a wave of his hand. “Wherever you want, I do realise I do not have much useful furniture.”

She looked around, suddenly aware of the state of his bedroom. Somehow she did not register the lack of unneeded furniture, and the simplicity of what was in the room – the simplicity that drastically contrasted not only with the customary decor of other magicians’ flats, but also with the interior of the Residence itself. Therefore, being left with no other apparent choice, she awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed.

“I do not blame you,” Akkarin said after another while of uneasy silence. She was beginning to hate those. “If I were you, I would probably do the same. Although, given our situation, it is unwise to presume anything.”

Sonea blushed, realising that his last remark was most like addressed at her. She was prone to judge quickly and definitely, and she had long but familiarised herself with that fault of her character. “What else could I have done?” she asked. “To whom else could I have talked to?”

“I told you I did not blame you,” he reminded her in an unexpectedly calm voice. “But let us not talk about that now, there are more important matters at hand. How are you holding up?”

She glanced at the cut on her forearm, groaned with disgust, and covered it with her sleeve. “I can’t sleep,” she answered, realising that she would achieve nothing by hiding certain aspects of her current state of mind. And, if she were to be honest with herself, she _needed_ to talk to someone. It could as well be Akkarin. “I see them in every shadow. I keep staring at the Dome, waiting for them to escape and come to kill me as well. And...”

“And?” he prompted.

“Sometimes I want to go there and do to her what she did to my family. And I’m terrified of that almost as much as I’m terrified of them.”

He did not say anything for a long while. He simply sat there, repeatedly – and, apparently, unconsciously – rubbing his forearms. Sonea waited with patience that was so uncommon for her. Maybe, in the end, she would get something at least akin to an explanation, something her heart craved for most.

“I will not tell you those fears will vanish,” the High Lord finally began. “Maybe they will, maybe not. Mine have never left me, but on the other hand, what we have been through cannot be compared. Do not perceive it as diminishing your trauma. Mine’s simply... different than yours. I do hope you manage to live without your fear. Having to endure it day by day, it... It takes its toll on you in more ways than you could have ever imagined.”

She sat in silence, unable to think of anything to say. She wanted someone to understand, to at least _pretend_ to acknowledge what she was going through, someone who would not look at her as if she were a child to be consoled with lies and false hopes. Unexpectedly, she found that someone in a person she would have never even taken into consideration. Therefore, in an unspeakable move that surprised even her, she rose from the bed and sat beside him on floor. He looked at her in astonishment, but she did not look back. Her gaze was fixed on the remnants of the bookcase, just like his used to be.

“How do you cope?” she asked quietly.

“I do not,” he answered, simply and in a voice that was almost a whisper. He pointed at the bookcase. “As you can see for yourself. I can barely sleep, and when I do, I have nightmares. As a matter of fact, I was wondering when I would lose control. It was getting more and more obvious that it would happen.”

“I don’t remember what I dream about,” Sonea revealed, a part of her amazed at the fact to whom she was speaking about what she believed to be unspeakable. “I think I would have remembered if I wanted to, but... hearing Hania’s cries is enough. I don’t want to _see_ it.”

“I hope you will not,” he told her. “My dreams are not as kind to me as yours.”

For a moment, she considered asking him about his nightmares, but the idea was rejected. It seemed... too much, too private. She was both astonished and terrified of the scope of their conversation. They were no friends to talk about those matters, they were not even on civil terms to start with, and yet...

 _And yet_ , she thought. ‘And yet’ was the key.

She had no one to talk about what happened to her. She had no one who would not patronise her and no one who would understand her. She could speak with Rothen about her studies, or with Dorrien about the triviality of daily routine, but there was no one to speak with about the terror that haunted her days and filled her nightmares.

Who was better to speak with about the nightmares if not the man who had those of his own?

“Why did she do that to them?” she heard herself asking. “We were no one to her.”

Akkarin averted his gaze from her, but not quickly enough. She had no idea that so much shame could be reflected in someone’s eyes. Heavy silence fell across the room, silence so deep that she was able to hear his frantically beating heart.

“She did that,” he started when Sonea lost the hope he would ever speak again, “to get to me. You are not their target, I am. And because of that...”

She held her breath as her heart gave a painful jolt and dragged her towards depths of misery she did know even existed. “Are you saying that...” she stuttered, “that...”

“They are dead because of me.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long talk is long.  
> ***  
> Music for this chapter: "Dogs" by Beware of Safety and "For What It’s Worth" by Illumine

Akkarin did not know that a human’s face could reflect so many feelings. There she was, right beside him, the woman who had once been a liability, then turned into a stranger with whom he shared a house. He did not know her, never really cared to get to know her, never saw a point in doing so. He had simply thought of her as a novice, one he unwillingly had to take care of. All that mattered to him had been her silence.

And then she had almost died and he realised that he in fact did care. He did not even like her, and yet he cared. He was unsure how that happened, he did not know what it meant, but he was certain it was dangerous. The simple fact that he became accustomed to her presence, that he began to be interested in her results at the university or her perspectives for the future was a leverage that – if found – could be used against him.

Now she was looking at him with anguish which depth he was unable to comprehend and grief that threatened to consume her sanity. He had begun to hope that they would not part as enemies when her graduation came, but now...

Now he was not certain about that.

“What...” she stuttered, unwanted and quite possibly uncontrolled tears shining in her eyes, “how... How dare you?! She _liked_ you! And you... Not _everything_ in the world is about you!”

“Look who is talking,” he snapped without thinking. He must have hit a soft spot – her eyes widened with fury. She opened her mouth to retort, but he did not let her. “ _This_ is about me. This is revenge. The man who is behind all this... I killed his brother. And although there are other reasons as well, that one is primary.”

Sonea was looking at him with what seemed to be a deeply harboured hatred towards him. She had not done that in a while, he realised bitterly. It was not something he missed, but he knew it was deserved.

“You’re a disease,” she said with contempt, and he flinched at her words; a reaction he could not explain. “You taint everything you touch. I thought that you would... understand what I’m going through, but it was just an act, wasn’t it? _Everything_ is just an act for you, every face you show is just a mask to hide behind.”

He clenched his fists, overwhelmed by a wave of annoyance he usually felt when he spoke with Sonea. She undoubtedly had a knack of getting under his skin. “Everyone _always_ wears a mask,” he said when he was sure that his voice would sound normal. A middle of a night was certainly not the best time to have such a conversation, but it seemed that he recently had little choice in picking time and place for important discussions. “This is the way people act ever since they started depending on each other.”

“Not everyone hides a sad, lonely murderer behind their mask.”

Akkarin somehow resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Here they were again, at the starting point of a seemingly ever-rotating circle. Was it always going to be like that? Would their relations be infinitely caught in the process of starting badly, getting slightly better, and then reverting back to their unbearable beginning?

If so, he was going to go insane before she finished her studies.

“It is so easy to judge, is it not?” he said, his voice low and full of loathing. Was it such because of her, or because of himself? He could not tell, neither did he have time to ponder on it. Maybe he already thought too much. “So easy to claim that you know everything. But here is probably the most important lesson I can teach you as your guardian: you do _not_ know everything. You do _not_ get to judge people if you do not truly know them. Do not ever presume that you can imagine what might have caused people to act the way they do. And... sometimes if you judge too quickly, just by the looks of things, you might make a mistake that will change your entire life.”

Sonea was looking at him for a moment, her expression slowly becoming more and more neutral. He was unsure what caused that, but tiredness was the most probable assumption. He knew better than to hope for understanding, let alone forgiveness.

He would have to forgive himself first.

“I assume that wasn’t just about you,” she finally said, her voice calm again. Akkarin wondered if it were a calm before a storm.

“No,” he answered. “That was a general rule life taught me. One you might find useful someday.”

She sighed and rubbed her face with both hands. It was a tired gesture, a gesture that betrayed at least one sleepless night. He knew the signs – shaking hands and eyes that could not focus. He knew the tilt of a head and a seemingly irresistible urge to simply lean against anything suitable, and doze off.

“I wanted to stop hating you,” she said in the end, her gaze focused on her hands. She never could have looked him in the eye. “And for a moment I thought I did. I thought that all you did to me was nothing compared to what _she_ did. Then you told me that it’s your fault my family had been killed, and I realised that I’ll always be able to hate you. That feeling, it’ll always just... _lie_ there, like cinders waiting to be lit anew. Does this even make sense?”

He had to clear his throat before answering. “Perfectly,” he rasped in the end, thinking of fiery depths of hatred towards Dakova which he had harboured for the last eight years. They exhausted him every day.

No one should live with such a burden. Definitely not her.

“The man whose brother is now seeking revenge,” he began, unsure where his own train of thought would lead him, “the man I killed... He took five years of my live, and condemned my entire future. I wish I could stop hating him, but I cannot forgive him, although what happened was entirely my fault. This... loathing will never cease, it is too deeply engraved upon me. So yes, I do understand what you mean. I suppose it is healthier to let go, but I know well enough not being able to.”

Her eyes were solemn when she regarded him, devoid of judgement or hatred – just this once, it would seem. “If you knew what would happen, would you change your mind? Would you spare him?”

“Never,” he answered before he could even begin constructing a plausible lie. And maybe that was the point. Maybe he should – at least to a certain extent – be honest with her. He had achieved nothing by blackmail and threats, so perhaps reason was the key. Sonea was, after all, an adult woman capable to making logical decisions. And they both were forced to endure each other for two more years.

Assuming, of course, that the invasion did not happen.

“I would never have spared him,” Akkarin finally said and suddenly regret overshadowed her features, making him unsure of what to say next for the first time in his life. “He... I would say he was a monster, but that is far from being a sufficient description. He was cunning, frighteningly smart, and beyond cruel. I cannot say if he had always been like that, of if circumstances had shaped into the man he was when I met him. Had I been smarter...”

His words trailed away, lost in overwhelming feelings of disgust and self-pity. He could not remember how many times he had tortured himself with “what ifs” and “had beens”. He could not remember how many times he had tried forgiving himself.

As it turned out, it was just as impossible as forgiving Dakova.

“But I was not,” he continued bitterly, unsure anymore if he was talking to her, or if his long-thwarted feelings and thoughts were finally demanding to shaped into words. “I was just a stupid, twenty-year old kid who thought himself invincible, just like every Warrior does. And in my youthful naïvety I made an error of judgement that cost me everything. That cannot be undone, so the least I can do is to try to prevent the damage that my mistakes of yore can inflict upon Kyralia.”

Akkarin took a deep breath, trying to figure out his next words, but there were none. He had a feeling that there was nothing more for him to say, at least not now. And those few titbits he managed to vocalise when the words carried him despite his wishes... Somehow, in a way he could not comprehend, they had soothed the dull ache tormenting his mind. He felt more vulnerable than ever and he hated that feeling with a blazing passion, but at the same time his heart seemed unexplainably lighter.

It was something he had to think about if he ever found time to do so. Currently, though...

Currently he was looking at Sonea who was sitting beside him, unmoving, without a sound. He was astonished at how relaxed and at easy she seemed to be, how _normal_ it was to have her here. Even though ‘here’ at that precise moment meant the floor of his bedroom, and a pile of burnt paper and wood right next to them. It should have been surreal. It should have felt wrong.

He just opened up to the woman he did not like, and who did not like him either, and all he felt was serenity.

“Are you saying that,” she spoke after a while, slowly, quite possibly thinking about every single word; something he should have done himself minutes ago, “what you’d done endangered the entire country? That killing one man caused... what, exactly? Beside a family feud?”

“Something I would rather not talk about,” he said, equally annoyed and amused that she always asked questions he could not answer. “It is currently a matter in which only the Higher Magicians are involved.”

“And my family, apparently,” she retorted bitterly.

“That was an unfortunate and unseen fallout I will have to live with for the rest of my life.”

 _And yet another regret I will never forgive myself for_ , he thought but restrained himself from saying out loud. Somehow, even compared with all he had already shared, that one revelation seemed too personal to reveal.

“But you still won’t tell me everything,” she said with reproach.

“Sonea...” he sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. If he were to be honest with himself, he was astonished at the amount of patience he apparently had at the moment. Perhaps he was simply too exhausted to get angry. “I hope you do not expect me to tell you what I have revealed only to the leaders of the Guild? Do not insult your own intelligence with such a claim.”

She averted her gaze, but not quickly enough. He decided to pretend that he did not see her tears. He could not believe that she still had strength to cry.

“I just...” she began slowly, trying to conceal her weeps. “I think I just wanted an explanation. A _reason_ to believe in, a point of some kind. But there’s none, is it? There’s simply no point at all. Just the fact that everything falls apart around you.”

He briefly thought of objecting, but in the end opted not to. What he had learnt about Sonea was that there was no point in arguing with her once she had formed a strong opinion about something. And he was fully aware of the opinion she had of him. “Life has got its way of breaking us into pieces,” he said instead. “It is up to us to pick ourselves up afterwards, no matter what challenge that would pose.”

Her eyes darted upwards to meet those of his; despite all the discomfort it brought him, he held her gaze. There was something... _new_ stirring behind the tears, something that could quite possibly herald a change in her. He hoped she would emerge stronger. She deserved better.

Especially from him.

“Have you?” Sonea asked, and that question was like a physical punch in the gut. “Have you picked yourself up after whatever was done to you?”

Akkarin winced as his memory sent a wave of phantom pain throughout his body. There was not much that had not been broken or scarred at some point, but there were moments in which he almost forgot.

Almost.

“No,” he rasped and folded his arms around himself in a pathetically desperate and defensive gesture. “I doubt anyone could.”

She kept looking at him with that unnerving kind of focus that was so unusual for her. It was not a pitying gaze, nor did it hold any sign of understanding. But the intensity of it... He could not bear it. Her gaze was like a chisel she was using to peel off every single layer of those intricate lies and defensive masks he had carefully constructed around himself. It was as if she wanted his very soul to lie exposed and defenseless at her feet.

He would have never imagined himself to prefer pity over that disconcerting, newly-found focus of hers.

“Give me your hand,” Sonea said after a moment and held out her own hand. His eyes were immediately drawn to the cut of her forearm, an involuntarily reaction he could not hope to prevent. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

Akkarin snickered in spite of himself and she shot him a furious glance that would have otherwise been amusing. He reluctantly reached out and wrapped his fingers around her small hand. It was shaking, her palm cold against his warm one.

 _—Was anything you just told me true?_ she asked him mentally, and he was suddenly aware of the brilliancy of her idea. She would know if he lied, but he did not have to comply. He was, after all, the High Lord of the Magicians’ Guild.

— _Yes,_ he answered and a wave of her emotions flowed through his mind. Grief was there, and surprise at his words. He could feel mistrust and pain and an overwhelming confusion. He did not try to decipher those feelings, he was not in a position to do that.

He forced himself to calm his thoughts, though.

— _Would you save them if you knew? Or were they expendable?_

— _No one is expendable,_ he replied with ferocity. Her surprise washed over him and it was the last emotion he felt from her before she freed her hand from his grasp.

Akkarin realised that he did not remember the last time he held someone’s hand and all of a sudden her careless words about a sad, lonely murderer no longer rang hollow.

“The funeral’s tomorrow,” Sonea’s voice brought his attention back to reality. “You may come if you want to.”

He blinked, confused and desperately grasping for understanding. “I sincerely doubt Rothen will appreciate my presence,” he pointed out. The last thing he wanted was an embarrassing scene at her family’s funeral.

“Rothen won’t be there,” she scowled.

“Oh.”

“It’s customary that only those who personally knew...” she stumbled for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words. Akkarin suspected that she was simply unable to vocalise the words ‘deceased’. “Anyway, you knew Jonna, and she liked you, so I thought...”

She waved her hand in a seemingly pointless gesture, but to him it carried a meaning that could be deciphered without effort.

“I will be honoured to attend,” he said. “Of course if that is acceptable to you.”

“I just invited you, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” he agreed. “And in this case I suggest you try to sleep, there is still a few hours left before dawn.”

She scowled and ran a hand through her messy hair. He was perfectly acquainted with frustration underlying her move. “I can’t sleep,” she said. “Every time I try, I fear I’ll dream about my family. Or worse, about _her_.”

Akkarin sighed, stood up and extended his hand towards her in a move that – at least he hoped so – left her no choice. “Get up, Sonea,” he encouraged her, “and go to bed. Should you decide to leave the door open, I will make sure to wake you if I hear you are having a nightmare.”

She regarded him with quite a considerable amount of doubt, but in the end took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled upwards. “Won’t you fall asleep?” she asked once she was standing on her feet.

“I think I have had enough for tonight,” he let out a humourless laugh and pointed at the remnants of his bookcase. Realisation dawned in her eyes.

“I’ll...” she stuttered. “I’ll think about it. Thanks for the offer.”

He watched her move towards the door, although without a globelight she was more of a silhouette than a person. He felt ashamed of himself – too much was revealed and even more was suggested. Exhaustion was taking its toll on him and it was bound to end with a disaster.

“Goodnight, Sonea,” he said without thinking and mentally kicked himself as soon as those words were spoken. After all the talked about, after everything that had happened – how could he have said that?

No night was ever going to be good again. Certainly not for him. As for her... She stopped for a moment at the threshold of his bedroom. “Goodnight,” she said and was gone immediately after that, as though she were never there. Akkarin was grateful that she at least skipped his title. Hearing it after their conversation would have been... unpleasant and embarrassingly out of place.

He looked at the pile of ash, groaned in frustration and lay on the bed, his eyes fixed on the barely noticeable ceiling. Fully aware that he was not going to fall asleep, he focused his attention on his surroundings, but the sound he expected could not be heard.

Sonea did not close her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this make sense? I hope it does, because it kind of... happened on its own.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> "Meet Me in the Woods" by Lord Huron  
> "Night" by Daniel Spanielak

Balkan picked the black magic up terrifyingly fast.

Watching him tower over the Sachakan captives caused Akkarin’s stomach to twist in a reaction he could not understand. He was annoyed and beyond tired, only his sheer willpower and a maddening sense of purpose keeping him on his feet. He wanted nothing more but to lie down and _sleep_ , sleep without dreams and nightmares, and without memories that until recently used to haunt him at nights.

Now those memories haunted him relentlessly and without a moment to breathe, and it was because of _them_.

He had no idea what do with them, and the time to make that decision was slipping through his fingers. Keeping them here, at the centre of the Guild’s grounds, was like asking for a catastrophe. It was already lurking in the shadows, growing with each passing day and gaining weight in possible consequences. It was driving him crazy.

Akkarin groaned, glanced at Balkan again, and suddenly a realisation hit him. That nauseating sense of displacement, that wrongness which refused to let go of him and kept nagging until he realised what was the reason for it...

He looked at Balkan standing over Marati, and all he saw was Dakova.

“That is enough,” he snapped because of an impulse he could not identify. “Everybody out.”

Somehow, they did not object. Vinara was the first one to exit the Dome, her relief almost palpable. Sarrin followed her, and Balkan stormed outside after a long while.

“What are you going to do?” Lorlen asked, standing still as a mountain, without any inclination to leave. Of course it had to be _him_ , questioning every single decision and doubting every move. But if Akkarin were to be honest with himself, he would not expect anything else.

“I do not know,” he answered quietly, his eyes fixed on the Sachakans. “We cannot keep them here, and neither can we release them.”

“Did they tell you anything useful?”

“They told me _nothing_ ,” the High Lord growled which caused the Sachakan woman to snort. The sound of it pushed him over the edge he was unaware of standing on.

He closed the distance between them and grabbed her head in both hands, ignoring cries of protest from both Lorlen and Marati. All reservations were suddenly forgotten, all doubts and uncertainties cast aside because of that one sound of superiority. She was their captive and yet she still mocked them, gloating as every Ichani would.

“Akkarin, what are you doing?!” the Administrator yelled, but he did not listen. He forced himself into the woman’s mind, utterly ignoring her pitiful mental barriers. Sonea had done a better job of defending herself from him that one afternoon when everything had almost spiralled of out his control.

He lurched at the Sachakan’s memories and checked them all, one by one, memorising every single detail in hope of being able to use them to the Guild’s advantage. He kept looking until she slumped under his hands, exhausted by the futility of her attempts to fight him off. Only then he released her and directed his attention to Marati, completely ignoring Lorlen’s protests. It was not the time for protests.

All the time he thought it was her, while in fact he should have been thinking of how to break _him_.

Akkarin crouched in front of Marati to be able to look into his eyes. “You love her, do you not?” he asked in Sachakan, and the other man’s gaze involuntarily darted to the woman in question. “You raised her from slavery, wedded her and gave her a name and a purpose... and yet your love is still unrequited.”

Marati’s features twisted in a painful scowl, and it was the only answer the High Lord needed. Moreover, the Sachakan could be pushed even further as he had no strength for a magical retaliation.

“Did you know,” Akkarin continued, “that she imagines someone else when she lays with you? This is the kind of person to whom you gave everything. Your family, your title and position as an Ashaki... and yet you are still no one to her. A means to an end. A mindless tool, ready to do whatever she wishes you to.”

Something appeared in the Ichani’s eyes, something that died almost instantly. “Do you really think you’re _that_ different from us?” he asked in his heavily accented Kyralian. “You come here every morning to take our power, and use us to teach your puppets the higher magic. Your words are poison born of the wasteland you carry inside you.”

Akkarin gritted his teeth to restrain himself from retorting. Every possible answer to that statement was wrong. Every word he could think of would just confirm Marati’s words and brand them as the truth they indeed were. He was never going to be free of Sachaka, the memory of it ever-present in every remaining minute of his life.

“It would be wise to cooperate,” he said after a while. “Otherwise, your perspectives are quite... grim.”

It took Marati a while, but he managed to stand up. “I’m not afraid of you, magician,” he laughed. “You’re just one man, and your disciples are merely children  learning how to walk. Whatever you might do to me is nothing compared to what _he_ will once he finds out that I’ve told you anything.”

Akkarin more felt than heard Lorlen approaching him and stopping right behind his back within an arm’s reach. Whatever he expected to achieve by that was deemed to fail. The High Lord took a step forward and was rewarded with a nervous twitch that twisted the Sachakan’s mouth.

“But you see, Marati,” he said in a calm voice that carried no sign of a storm of emotions raging inside him, “Kariko is not here. _I_ am.”

He made a pause, more than willing to let the Sachakan’s imagination work its magic. He hoped that whatever it was that caused novices to run away at the mere sight of him would work on that man as well.

“Your own Ambassador would not even acknowledge your existence, let alone your current situation. And Kariko? He does not reward failure, and that is exactly what your mission resulted in. A failure.”

He took a step forward and another one after that, and Marati kept backing away until he bumped into the wall. He could do nothing else but look into Akkarin’s eyes, pretending to hold onto remnants of whatever dignity he used to possess.

“Ashaki Hachiro claimed your slave as his own,” the High Lord said, keeping his unwavering gaze focused on the Sachakan. “You have ceased to be an Ashaki a long time ago, and you are no longer an Ichani. You have given your love to a woman who never felt the same way about you and you decided to follow a man who could not care less if you lived or died. Every single decision you have ever made was a failure. Those failures led you here, to me. I hold your life in my hands and the outcome depends on you. You can make that one decision that will not go to waste and if you do, I promise you that you will both be away from Kyralia when Kariko arrives.”

Akkarin was vaguely aware of the fact that Lorlen decided to put on the ring in order to ask him questions he did not dare to speak aloud. He did not answer, though, neither did he listen to the Administrator’s frantic inquiries. It was not the time to divide his attention.

Not when he was about to find out if he were able to put a leash on his own emotions and act reasonably towards the Sachakans when need be. He was tired of his own anger that was slowly burning him out. Was it possible to live without it? Was it possible to face a new day without terror and a sickening certainty of an incoming disaster?

He could not remember. He could not imagine what it would be like to let go of those emotions.

“Kariko doesn’t share his plans with us,” Marati finally said. His wife let out a wordless cry of denial and protest, but it did not seem to have any effect on him. “But there were eleven of us at the beginning and when we departed for Kyralia, only six were left. They all left as some point and didn’t return. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Eleven?” Lorlen whispered, but Akkarin squeezed his arm in a gesture he hoped to be both comforting and silencing. Interruptions were the last thing he needed right now.

“What else do you know?” he asked.

“I...” Marati began, glanced at his wife and hesitated for a moment. She was too exhausted to even stand up, but her face expressed disappointment and betrayal.

“Be reasonable,” the High Lord said quietly and the Ichani returned his gaze to him. “She is your responsibility. Does your loyalties truly lie with a man who perceives you as a pawn in his game? Are you able to choose your own wife over everyone else when such a choice really matters?”

“He doesn’t share anything, I told you that already,” the Sachakan replied hastily, his voice no longer steady and calm. “But he used to say that you won’t see him coming, because he will be everywhere and when you realise that, it’ll already be too late.”

* * *

Lorlen accompanied him on his way home, but Akkarin could not fathom why. Their relationship had been reduced to a professional one, and he knew that the only person to blame for that was himself. There were moments in which he tried to figure out what to do about it – if there were anything to be done at all.

To be frank, he knew how badly he screwed up his relationship with Lorlen and how deeply he hurt the man who used to be his best friend for over  half of his life. He did not delude himself that it was a salvageable relation, not with what Lorlen thought of him. Akkarin was not a man to thrive on false hopes so he did not give himself those. It would be utterly foolish to believe that the Administrator would forgive him. He did not expect that, but he would lie if he said that he wanted to give up on their friendship – or whatever was left of it.

“You should have told me that you wanted to free those two,” Lorlen suddenly began. Akkarin looked at him, surprised and unsure of the conclusion to come. “We cannot act without each others’ awareness and approval.”

The High Lord groaned in frustration, although he was aware that Lorlen _technically_ was right. That knowledge, however, did not prevent him from realising the utter stupidity of such actions. They would sit and talk and then talk even more, and meanwhile the Ichani would be able to roam freely across Kyralia. He was not going to let that happen.

“First of all, they will not be freed,” he said and, having noticed a few magicians walking leisurely in the vicinity, wrapped them both within a sound-proof barrier. “I simply said that they will not be in Kyralia when Kariko attacks. There is nothing more we can learn from them, so I will simply block their powers and have them sent to one of Lannish prisons.”

He had an impression that a pout twisted Lorlen’s mouth but it was a brief grimace, one he could not be certain about. Not to mention, the unbecoming one.

“And that is exactly the kind of plan you should not keep to yourself,” the Administrator said, something unexpected underlying his words. Akkarin could not be certain, but it sounded like anger.

He could not remember the last time Lorlen was angry.

“My plans change according to situations at hand,” the High Lord explained calmly. “Things happen, Lorlen. You cannot predict them all, hence you cannot plan for everything. You react; nothing more, nothing less.”

“I doubt you _just_ came up with an idea to ship them off to Lan,” Lorlen snapped, and this time Akkarin was certain that the Administrator _was_ angry. Furious, even. Those feelings must have gathered unnoticed, growing in strength with their roots buried deep within the rich soil of his hurt and overwhelming sense of betrayal.

The man unfolding right in front of him was one of his own making.

“I have taken that under consideration,” Akkarin admitted. “Amongst many other ideas.”

“Next time I expect you to consult me first,” the Administrator said in frustration, hastily and seemingly without a thought.

Akkarin raised a brow and opened his mouth, but no sound left it. Lorlen stared at him and his face gradually lost all its colour.

“Lorlen...” the High Lord finally managed to say, and that was it.

“Do not Lorlen me!” the other man yelled, his face suddenly just as red as it was white mere seconds ago. It made Akkarin thank himself that he thought of the sound-proof barrier. “ _We_ are going to your home and _you_ are going to listen to what I have to say.”

“Lorlen—“ he tried again but to no avail.

“Do _not_ speak my name until I am finished!”

The Administrator stormed off towards the Residence, leaving the thunderstruck High Lord behind like a scolded child. That was not the man he knew, that was someone utterly desperate and pushed beyond his limits. Had the circumstances been different, he would have been amused at such an outburst. He would have thought it to be an overreaction, nothing but a fit caused by irritation and maybe a little bit of helplessness.

At that moment, however, too much was at stake not to take outbursts like that seriously.

He followed Lorlen to the very threshold of his own house and closed the door behind himself. The Administrator was already pacing frantically in the living room, confined to a small space between a fireplace and two armchairs, his hands deep within the pockets of his robes. Much to his surprise, Akkarin found himself reluctant to speak. He had a vague impression that this situation could easily get out of hand and that was something he would rather avoid at all cost.

“I want to know every single idea you have,” Lorlen finally spoke, his voice dangerously close to a hysteria. “Every single plan and even a shred of thereof. I want to know _everything_. If there is an Ichani you know by name, I want that name and their descriptions. If you have the faintest suspicion about something, I expect you to share it with me. If...” his voice faltered suddenly and he had to take a deep breath to calm himself. “If you go to the city to kill someone, I want to know whom and where.”

Akkarin regarded him in silence, unsure if that were an end to that tirade. Familiar annoyance surfaced in his thoughts, but he pushed it back for the time being. He knew Lorlen was getting more and more agitated with every passing day, though he did not expect something like that.

He was skilled at playing at other people’s feelings, but he was just as unable to deal with those as he was with his own.

“This is not a one-man theatre anymore, Akkarin. We do it together or not at all, and believe me when I tell you that this decision is no longer yours to make.”

That delicate heat of annoyance burst into flames of anger. “Do _not_ presume that you can control me,” Akkain said in a cold voice and took a step forward. “I will not be controlled again.”

Lorlen stopped pacing and looked at him with a frown. “No one is talking about controlling you,” he snapped, removed one hand from his pocket and threw something onto the floor. “But now that we are at this topic, I will _gladly_ elaborate on it.”

The High Lord glanced at the floor and something cold squeezed his throat. The ring lay there, its blood gem shining in a bright morning light coming through the windows. It was an accusation and a milestone, a symbol of how much had been lost and of a greater, unspeakable amount of what had been sacrificed.

“Do not _dare_ to speak to me about control,” the Administrator growled in a voice that was not his own. “Do not act as if you were better than us. Do not presume that what you have been through gives you the right to make decisions for all of us.”

“I am the High Lord of this Guild,” Akkarin said, his voice matching Lorlen’s passion with its coldness. “I hope I do not need to remind you about that.”

“And _I_ am its Administrator!” the other man yelled at the top of his lungs. “This is as much _my_ Guild as it is yours! Maybe even more, because this is the only family I have, while you...”

He stopped suddenly, but Akkarin was not going to let that go unfinished. Whatever it might end with, it was ending right there with no delay. “While I what?” he asked quietly. “Go on, Lorlen, say what you have to say.”

“You brought a war upon us! No matter how hard you try, it is not a kind of war you can fight on your own. You are not a mindless child to pretend otherwise.”

“I beg to differ—“

“Beg whatever you want,” Lorlen cut him in, all caution thrown to the wind. “It does not change the fact that you already failed. If only you told the Higher Magicians about the Ichani immediately after your return—if you _trusted_ me—“

“No,” Akkarin interrupted, although he wished there was another way. No more lies, he had promised himself. No more games.

Apparently that promise was going to cost him what little he had left.

“I couldn’t have risked that,” he continued, abandoning all that formality that was always expected from him. If he were to ruin that pitiful imitation of what used to be his friendship with Lorlen, the least he could do was to discard the High Lord and be himself. “How could I know that you wouldn’t run off to tell the Higher Magicians about me? I don’t even trust myself anymore, so how could I have trusted _you_?”

Lorlen was looking at him and suddenly something died in his wide-open eyes, something that Akkarin did not ever realise to be there until it was already too late. He wondered briefly what it could have been, but all of a sudden the Administrator hit him in the jaw and he wondered no more.

“You were like a brother to me!” Lorlen yelled while Akkarin simply gaped at him, bewildered beyond belief; blood trickling slowly from the corner of his mouth. “I trusted you with my _life_! I—I knew something was wrong since the moment I saw you at the gates. I saw the way you limped when you walked and the scowl on your face when you leant back in a chair. I saw the look in your eyes every time someone mentioned your journey, but I did _nothing_. Do you know why? Because I thought that in time, my _friend_ would open up and told me what was bothering him. I thought he would _trust_ me the way I trusted _him_ , but it never happened. I watched you isolate yourself more and more with each passing year until you practically became a hermit. I watched you become this—this bitter and lonely wraith of your old self and I _let_ it happen. I let it happen and it drove me crazy, because I thought I failed you. And then you did... _that_ ” he pointed at the ring, “and I stopped caring, because I realised that I no longer had a friend.”

Akkarin waited a long while for the Administrator to continue, but he did not. He averted his pained gaze from the ring and took a few steps back to look through the window, and only then the High Lord raised a hand to wipe the blood off his face.

Something within him hurt much more than his jaw.

“You know,” he finally said, unsure of where it would lead him, “your right hook certainly hasn’t improved since the last time you punched me.”

There was another long moment of silence, and he almost became certain that Lorlen would not reply. He was on the brink of opening his mouth to say something else when a nearly inaudible snort stopped him.

“It’s not like I practice it daily,” the Administrator groaned, still facing the window rather than Akkarin. It seemed that he decided to skip the formal forms as well. “I didn’t think you’d remember that, though. That was _one_ time.”

“How could I forget?” the High Lord asked seriously. There was no reply, so he took a step forward. “What was her name? _That_ I can’t remember.”

“Cassia,” came a quiet answer. “Cassia of House Ingwar.”

“Cassia, right,” he acknowledged even though despite his words he remembered it well. “Do you still write to her?”

“She’s married,” Lorlen huffed in indignation. “Besides, it’s... it’s in the past now, it ended long ago. Which you would’ve known if you hadn’t left. Or if you bothered to ask at some point after your return.”

Akkarin could not force himself to vehemently assure Lorlen that he did care. With everything that happened between them, it was too hypocritical even for him. “Ryala,” so he said instead, and the name he had not spoken aloud in years sounded alien to his own ears. The Administrator shot him a puzzled glance.

“Ryala of no House, no Family and with nothing to her name,” the High Lord continued even though his heart shattered anew with every word. “She was the one who nursed me back to health after my first attempt to escape from Dakova’s camp. She was kind and strong and surprisingly cheerful given her situation. When she smiled, it was as if the sun appeared in the sky after a rainy day.”

He could feel Lorlen’s eyes fixed on him, but it was his turn not to look at anything other than the window in front of him.

“It was so easy to just... give up, but she made me want to survive, to get up every time I thought I wasn’t able to. She was that tiny glimmer of hope in a place where there was none. And then Dakova found out. He summoned us to his tent and made me watch him rape her.”

“I...” the Administrator stuttered in a silence that followed. “I’m—“

“He told her to stay away from me and she did,” Akkarin went on, his hands hurting from the strength with which gripped the windowsill. “He kept summoning her and she kept going. Willingly, with her head bowed, because this is what it means to be a slave. And in the end he killed her, and there was no more hope.”

He let go of the windowsill and tried to flex his fingers. They were numb, pulsating with a shadow of pain that was yet to come. “Those are things I didn’t tell you,” he continued after a moment. “I didn’t speak about pain, torture and struggle to pretend that nothing happened. I didn’t tell you of the thrill of joy I felt when I finally killed him, and then about the panic so strong that I threw up and ran blindly for two days straight. The scowl you noticed? Those were injuries on my back. The limp? A broken ankle and an old fracture in my hip bone. Once I regained enough power, I broke it again and set the bone as it should have been set in the first place.”

“I’m a Healer, Akkarin,” Lorlen pointed out, although he sounded considerably calmer than a few minutes ago. “You know I could’ve helped.”

“There are wounds that cannot be healed.”

The Administrator did not reply this time and Akkarin did not push him into talking, even though the silence was getting on his nerves. He was drowning and it was only a matter of time before the water of his failures closed above him. It did not matter that a little bit of silence was encountered on the way.

“You didn’t trust me enough to try, so now I guess we’ll never find out.”

Akkarin groaned and rubbed his face. He was too tired to do this.

He was too tired to do anything.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly. “Admit that I’ve made mistakes? They’re _countless_ , Lorlen, and I’ve been trying to fix them all for the past eight years. I was careless and stupid, and it cost me _everything_.”

“You didn’t have to do that alone,” Lorlen said in an equally quiet voice. “That was your own choice. Instead of asking for help, you chose to do this all by yourself and it turned out to be more than you can chew.”

Akkarin let out an exasperated sigh but did not object. He was not the one to argue when the truth had been spoken. No matter how little he liked it.

“But I think I’ve realised by now that you’re no longer capable of asking for help,” the Administrator went on and Akkarin looked at him in confusion. “You keep everything to yourself, but at some point there’s no more space. When it happens, you’ll suffocate and crumble because of all those things you can’t let go of. Tell me, Akkarin, who will help you then? How can _anyone_ know that you need them when no one knows what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours? You’re not some random magician who can afford that.”

When Lorlen put a hand on his shoulder, Akkarin turned his head to look into the eyes of the man who used to be his best friend. Those were the eyes of a stranger now and although sympathetic, it was a person he did not know.

“Confide in someone, Akkarin. Don’t torture yourself, you already had enough of that.”

“I don’t think I can,” the High Lord whispered despite his urge to leave that last sentence unanswered. It seemed that pretending was no longer possible.

“Then pull yourself together, because I won’t be the one to do that for you,” Lorlen said in a surprisingly judgemental voice. He stepped away from Akkarin, picked the ring up and put it in his pocket. “This _does_ have its uses, so I’ll keep it for now. Don’t expect me to wear it, though. It’ll be my choice of when and where I’ll do that.”

“You do realise that if not worn, it doesn’t serve its purpose, don’t you?”

“From now on, its only purpose is communication,” the Administrator stated in a tone that left absolutely no place for arguing. “I might be able to forgive you forcing me to wear it, but I’ll neither forgive nor forget that you didn’t trust me. Like I said, I expect you to tell me everything that concerns the Ichani. If you’re willing to talk about anything else, if— _when_ you realise that this... shell of torment and self-pity you retreated into cannot last, then ask yourself if you’re able to trust me again. Then and _only_ then come and find me. You know where I live, after all.”

Akkarin watched him leave without another word or a farewell while his roaring thoughts and deafening silence of the Residence assaulted his senses. He desperately needed coherent thoughts, but they could not be formed no matter how hard he tried.

And there was still a funeral he had to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reasonable grown-ups usually talk and solve their problems. AKA a chapter in which Lorlen has had enough.  
> 


End file.
